


Shadow Boxing

by TauraNorma



Series: Flying Colours [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst, Angst and Romance, Aurors, Blood and Violence, Complete, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts Hospital Wing, Love, Lupin/Tonks - Freeform, Remadora, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Politics, Werewolf Remus Lupin, remus/tonks - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 76,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22267069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TauraNorma/pseuds/TauraNorma
Summary: “It’s hell,” said Tonks, hating every tear that escaped. “It’s hell feeling this way. People may have slapped a pretty name on the thing, but love is bloody breaking me"An indoctrinated werewolf army is rising, the war is spiralling out of control, and two divided lovers are haunted by their past.Told through their alternating perspectives, 'Shadow Boxing’ follows Remus and Tonks over the Half-Blood Prince canon timeline. It is the sequel to ‘Flying Colours’ (pre-reading recommended but not essential) and the second story in the Flying Colours Trilogy.
Relationships: Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks
Series: Flying Colours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602856
Comments: 463
Kudos: 330
Collections: Harry Potter - Remus Lupin centric, Second Wizarding War & Hogwarts Era





	1. Golden Hour (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Shadow Boxing!

**Prologue: Golden Hour**

_Remus stood. One figure amongst lines and rows of many. Once a rabble now they were ordered, almost regimental. Every tired, hungry face was staring up into the yellowish eyes of the one who paced the wooden platform in front of them. The boards groaned under every step. As he walked, the curved, lumpish muscles of his shoulders strained against his clothing. The crowd rippled with each word: a silent, contagious tremor of anticipation. Remus felt himself - every inch from aching feet to dirty beard - absorbed and anonymous in the crowd. They were all alike in their frayed clothes, in the smell of smoke and charred meat that clung to their hair and skin, in the pain that swelled in their bones with the dying of the light. He had wished so many times to be able to see into the hearts of his fellows, but never more so than in this moment. How he wished he could know whether the craving for blood and atavism was what made the air around them hum or whether they, like he, felt a terror and disgust so strong he could die just to be free of it._

_Remus’ hand went to his pocket though he knew there was nothing there that could help him. No potion. No rescue. How could he have been so stupid?_

_“The night has come. The night you so richly deserve. Tonight we will avenge the insults. We will avenge the abuse. We will show them our power and they will be cowed by it. Tonight will be a reckoning! The first night of glory for our kind!”_

_Every proclamation was met by throaty cheers. The ache between Remus' joints deepened, his mouth was dry and his stomach rolled with bile. As the sun burned the horizon behind him, Greyback’s matted grey hair seemed to rise up around his head like golden flames. He began to recite his plan and the knees of the man in front of Remus started to tremble._

_Remus’ skin flushed hot then cold. His pulse thumped._

_He knew what he needed to do._

_It was time to take up his true name again. The name he’d borne through every trial of his life until it brought him to this place. The same name he’d worn when she - so far away now and surely despising him - had sworn that she loved him._

_He knew he had likely reached the last moments of his life and so he allowed himself - just for these few, sweet final seconds - to remember her. Dora. Dora whose memory now filled him with courage like a blaze of phoenix fire. Dora's sleeping breath on his chest…Dora gasping between kisses in his arms…Dora in all her ferocity telling him “I get more fucking in love with you everyday"..._

_But Remus had to grind his back teeth together as pain flashed suddenly in his temple. Time was running out._

_He knew what he needed to do._

_But when he raised his head, defiant, ready to step out of line, another pair of eyes met his. Fenrir Greyback was looking directly at Remus. And he was smiling._


	2. Shadow Boxing

**Chapter 2: Shadow Boxing**

_Ten Months Earlier_

Tonks’ wand crossed the air in two quick slashes. The dogwood felt hot against her palm as she twisted her body into a controlled twirl then thrust her wand in a jab, sending a crackle of white-hot sparks towards her opponent. When they failed to make contact, she swallowed her frustration; focusing only on the pulsing thread of power linking her brain to the tight sinews of her wrist and on to the wand that kept firing without hesitation; forcing every one of her tired muscles to obey. When a rainbow shower of sparks came for her, she curved her spine backwards, making herself floppy and fluid, dodging the impact. A ghostly pain throbbed deep in the pit of her stomach and mud began suctioning at her boot heels, but she told herself that she wasn’t going to slip; she wasn’t going to let herself fail. Wind, fresh off the mountain peaks, sent her black Auror robes flying up around her and cooled the sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her eyes flicked, analysing every step her adversary took, searching for a weak spot until, fast as a dart, her fizzing jet of sparks found its line and went crashing into the base of his sternum.

Tonks let out a breath of triumph, but didn’t smile. Finlay Savage rolled his eyes, panting, and lowered his wand. 

“Alright, enough!” he said. “That’s eight-five to you. Let’s call it a day.”

Tonks kept her wand raised and reset her feet into an attack stance. The insistent voice in her own head was louder than any pang of exhaustion.

_You’re still too slow. She’d beat you again and you know it._

“Let’s go again,” she said. “I messed up a combination.”

Finlay groaned. 

“Come on, just one more go of it!”

“Nice try, but I’m not falling for that again,” said Finlay, unclasping his robe to reveal a damp t-shirt which he flapped at the hem in an attempt to cool himself. “Don’t get me wrong, I admire your commitment and all, but non-stop bouts of spark sparring isn’t exactly how I planned on spending every break.”

Tonks rolled her stiff shoulders and used her fingernails to rake back the moist strings of hair that had fallen into her eyes. 

“It’s bad enough already,” he continued, “being posted up here in the arse end of nowhere. I bet we won’t even get any action at all. Death Eaters aren’t going to dare strike Hogwarts - not whilst Dumbledore’s around.”

Tonks tipped her head back, pouring ice-cold water out of her wand and into her open mouth before letting it coat her face. Droplets slipped down her collar, running all the way down to where a smoke-grey scar marked her abdomen, sending a shiver of goosebumps across her skin. 

“Who knows what those bastards might try,” she said.

She shook her head, dog-like, sending icy water flying away in all directions. Finlay pulled his robe tightly back around himself. 

“Well, you’re the only one of us who’s actually faced those bastards so I’ll have to bow to your superior judgement,” he said. 

His sarcasm wasn’t quite as playful as it once might have been. Tonks didn’t respond. Heat seemed to be leaching out of her now that they’d stopped sparring. She looked up at the clouds instead of meeting Finlay’s eyes. The wind buffeted them across the sky, splitting them against the sharp peaks of the distant mountains. The pink that laced their edges told of Autumn. It was the last day of August and the thirty-second day of Tonks’ posting in Hogsmeade. Since their arrival, Finlay, Proudfoot and Dawlish had all asked her about that night. More than once. But what had happened down in the Department of Mysteries with the Order of the Phoenix was not something Tonks was willing to talk to them about. There wasn’t much she was willing to talk to them about. 

As they walked off the common and into the main village, there was a stilted, contagious awkwardness to Finlay’s stride. He still wasn’t used to her silence. Words used to bubble out of Tonks at any given moment. Foot-in-mouth jokes and a cocky repartee had come as naturally to her as horns on a toad. But now it was like there was a tight stopper in her brain. The words wouldn’t come and the heaviness of their absence seemed to suck the air out of even the smallest encounter. As they wound through the streets, the villagers - clad in the green hats and purple cloaks of old-fashioned wizarding dress - stared at the two Aurors as they passed. Some smiled and doffed the rims of their tall hats, but others looked wary: Aurors hadn’t been stationed full-time at Hogsmeade since the First War and everyone knew all too well why they were here now. Finlay puffed out his chest and waved, playing the local celebrity, but Tonks looked down at her boots as they pounded the cobbles. 

“How about the Three Broomsticks?” Finlay said suddenly, stopping and turning to her. “Merlin knows we’re not gonna get many chances for a pint when the kids come back tomorrow and our shifts get extended.”

Tonks chewed at the ripped edge of a thumbnail. The sun was even lower now, glinting golden around the corners of the stone houses. The darkening sky promised another long night alone. Another long night in which time seemed to stretch out dizzyingly, even as the very walls seemed to contract around her, closer and closer with every hour that passed. The prospect of it chilled her. But the prospect of company, of being expected to make shallow small talk or tolerate probing questions through a fug of pipe smoke was even worse. At least when she was alone she didn’t have to pretend.

“I dunno, I’m pretty knackered…” 

“Ach, buck up Tonks! Just one pint. Dawlish is doing the evening patrol so you’ll be spared a rerun of that Cutty Sark anecdote he keeps telling. I swear, you and me must be the only residents of this bloody village under the age of forty - I can’t handle a whole year in this place without a bit of fun!” 

“Look…I know I’m being crap but I just…I want to get some rest tonight, okay?”

Finlay shrugged and chipped a boot at the ground, but Tonks didn’t have enough of herself spare to feel guilty about it. Her old drinking mate from Auror College, Tonks used to gossip with Finlay over their neighbouring desks during her first years at the Ministry; united by a shared inclination for post-mission trips to the greasiest chippie they could find. He had once been her good friend. But all that belonged to a different life, belonged to _before_. Before her fellow Aurors had happily eaten up every denial issued by the Ministry about Voldemort’s return. Before Tonks had flung herself into a parallel life of covert missions and the leaking of Ministry secrets to the Order. Before all those nights spent sitting in the dim, mouldering kitchen of her own ancestors, laughing until her cheeks ached at the stories of two wounded, glorious men. Nothing could ever be the same again, least of all herself. Now she knew what it was to meet warm grey eyes across a room and feel her whole body catch alight; to put her heart into the hands of someone who’d rather fling it to the ground than admit they could possibly deserve it; to love Remus Lupin. 

Tonks’ chin felt like jelly. And Finlay was giving her a look. It was the same look of puzzled concern she’d been getting from everyone that summer: it took in the purplish smudges under her eyes; the lank hair hanging to her shoulders in the shade of weak tea; her unsmiling mouth and dulled eyes - all the little pieces of evidence that there was something wrong with her. Tonks turned, hating the pity. She walked away and it was a relief when no call to stop came.

Hogsmeade felt different to the village she’d once romped around as a student. She remembered herself - maybe green ringleted, or orange mohawked, or blonde bobbed - stashing her school robes in a hedge and morphing a couple of extra years onto her face to buy a cheap bottle of wine from Adaberry Growler’s corner shop. She and her friends - the same friends whose unanswered letters lay on her windowsill - would consume it surreptitiously down an alleyway, giggling so loudly that a professor would inevitably discover them and Hufflepuff’s hourglass would lose a few dozen topaz that day. Now the village felt as alien to her as she felt alien within it. How could somewhere surrounded by so much green feel so enclosed? Then there were the cobbles that her feet never quite got right, an ankle always twisting, a heel always slipping; the air scentless and stinging her lungs with its freshness; the horizon unblocked by buildings, rising instead with indifferent snow-capped munroes. And every night was deathly quiet. She wanted fumes, dirty pavements, muggle sirens, the jostle of strangers all around her - she’d even take the sweaty indignity of the muggle Central Line. She missed London right down in her very marrow. 

Perched at the end of a higgledy-piggledy terrace was a skinny house built of grey, crumbling stone. Only a single narrow window squeezed below the roof's dramatic point betrayed the existence of the steep-beamed attic that the Ministry of Magic had assigned Tonks for her indefinite posting. Her favourite thing about it was the rickety wooden staircase, fixed to the outside wall of the house, which allowed her access to her room without having to pass through the house itself and so suffer the curiosity of its owners. She took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the lurch beneath her feet, and waved her wand to unlock the door. When she was inside, she immediately locked it again, leaning her back hard against it. She stared straight ahead without really seeing; feeling only the blank consolation of being abruptly alone. Tonks rarely bothered to open her curtains and the attic was gloomy, with just the orange burn of the setting sun seeping below the heavy drapes for light. The ceiling was so pitched as to make the room triangular. There was space enough for a sagging double bed, a sooty fireplace, a terracotta-orange kitchen and a table with one leg too short. Magic could have fixed the wobbly table - not to mention the flaking paint, the black mould blossoming in a corner of the ceiling, the thick bushels of spider webs in the rafters - but Tonks had never felt the need. 

She glanced up at the clock. In three hours’ time it would be September. A season, a whole season had passed since he'd left. Sudden nausea churned her stomach and her windpipe tightened. She gripped the door handle, breathless. Thinking of all the days that had passed since she’d last seen his face and all the days likely to come made her press a trembling hand to her mouth: each day brought the thing she feared closer; the thing that she carried with every step, that clung on to her with cold fingers; the thing that lay with her and wouldn’t let her sleep. Remus could be dead by the time the season turned again. Dead believing that it was right for them to be separated. Dead before she could save him. Dead like Sirius. 

And just like that any merciful numbing from the passing of time evaporated and Tonks was sent right back to the moment Remus left her. It was a moment that had lasted hours. A moment that had never truly ended. She’d known he wasn't coming back but all the same she'd lain on the kitchen floor of her London flat waiting for him, the _crack_ of his departure ringing in her ears. It was only when she noticed the mousey strands of hair, as long as her elbows, pooled on the floorboards around her that she sat up. She grasped bunches of the thin, split hair in her hands, not understanding. Shuffling to the mirror, she discovered a face that was only distantly familiar, unnerving like a distorted painting. Tears clung to stubby, pale eyelashes. The nose she’d transformed a thousand times to make people laugh was pink, dotted with pores and running. Her eyes weren't quite the rich, almost indigo blue she'd thought they were. When she pulled up her top to see the curse scar left by Bellatrix Lestrange - the same mark she’d erased that very morning - panic set in. Tonks crumpled her face again and again, concentrating so hard that her head started to pound and fireworks of white spots dotted her vision. But no matter how hard she tried - so hard it felt like blood might start to burst out from her eyes, nose, ears - the stranger, the default, the blank canvas in the mirror wouldn't change. A kind of claustrophobia overcame her and she stumbled backwards, hacking at the ends of the hair with her wand. By the time the day was over, every mirror she owned had been turned black.

The Auror Department forced sick leave on her. The Order wouldn’t allow her on active duty. Though Tonks denied it to anyone who asked, the pain from the curse that had landed her in St Mungo’s persisted. It lessened only when Tonks drank her prescribed potions, but she didn’t always do so: the pain was earned, it ran parallel to the pang that came when she thought about Sirius. The first time she skipped a dose came after she’d finally had the frank conversation with her mum she’d been dreading - when she’d had to tell her that not only had Sirius been innocent, but Tonks had known for a whole year without telling her. Andromeda’s only chance for reconciliation with someone of her own blood had died in the Hall of Prophecies too. 

Marooned and useless, it was the wireless that told Tonks about the giant attack in Somerset, the destruction of Brockwell Bridge, Emmeline’s murder. All she could do was bounce from one Order member’s house to another, desperate for information about Remus - where the werewolf camp was, how he was communicating with Dumbledore, whether they were absolutely sure he was still alive - but none of them knew a thing. All she gained from her visits to Dedalus or Hestia or Mundungus was shame from their thinly-disguised shock at her appearance; their realisation that she’d lost the thing which made her uniquely valuable. Tonks hung around the Burrow, nauseated by Bill and Fleur but dependent on the anaesthetic salve of talking with Molly. She knew Remus visited the Weasleys too sometimes, but the threat he’d made on the day he’d left made her too afraid to stage a collision. _“I will not leave the camp for any occasion I know you’ll be present at”_ \- if she ambushed him, he would punish himself; give himself no respite from whatever hell he was living in. She sometimes wrote strongly-worded letters to Dumbledore but always burnt them afterwards. 

When her sick leave ended, she was sent into what felt like exile. With Kingsley stationed in his elite role protecting the muggle Prime Minister, Tonks had no one to appeal to. She was dispatched onto the Hogwarts protection squad, only permitted to leave Hogsmeade every fourth shift and placed on call every moment in between. Away from the action but under perpetual liability, barely even able to attend Order meetings. When Tonks packed up the rental flat on the east end of the Regent’s Canal that she had so loved, it felt like a punishment. Every little memory, everything she had been whilst living in the three rooms that had been her home since graduation was reduced into a single box on the street. When she stepped onto the Knight Bus, she left behind the place where she’d celebrated the completion of her final Auror exam; spent countless nights dancing around in her pyjamas to the Weird Sisters; once eaten pasta on the sofa with Remus, half-dressed in a post-orgasmic euphoria. 

Ever since she’d woken up in St Mungo’s, pieces of herself seemed to be ripping away and as the bus sped away in a purple blur of acceleration, it felt like the final cut. Mildred the owl had shrieked from her cage on the vibrating floor, but Tonks couldn’t look at her; she could only press her face against the window, imagining that every run-down Georgian square they rocketed past was Grimmauld Place. But it didn’t take long for the red doubledeckers, black cabs and wobbly tourist bicycles to disappear from view and be replaced by green, nondescript countryside. When an old man, balancing not one but three colourful top hats on his wispy white hair, had handed her a hankie, she’d broken: seeing herself as if from above, choking with ugly sobs and surrounded by the badly-packed contents of her life. 

That same box still sat in her attic room, hardly emptied. Only her radio, some clothes and - what she most cherished, the only physical thing she owned which proved Remus Lupin had once loved her - an old record player. Tonks gazed at it until her windpipe finally seemed to unclench and she was able to wander slowly away from the door. New letters had appeared on her windowsill, but Tonks only glanced at them. 

_I hope you had a lovely birthday and that Errol managed to deliver your scarf in one piece. I thought a bit of pink might help put a smile back on your face - you know how I worry. No word from Remus since he visited us last month I’m afraid, but I’m sure Dumbledore would say if something awful had..._

_….every Tonks is stubborn to the core and even though your mum’s a Tonks by marriage, she’s no exception. But she’ll come round, I promise. The whole thing’s just been a bit of a shock to her system. To be honest Dora, we’re both blooming worried about you - why don’t you come over for a roast..._

_….I’m dying to get back to Hogwarts - I just want to be a million miles away from Phlegm and back practising Quidditch on a proper pitch! I suppose seeing Dean every day won’t be so bad too (even if it means Ron will be even more annoying than he already is!!!) Anyway, the main reason I’m writing (I know you don’t like fuss but please listen) is that we’re all a bit worried about you, Mum especially. She won’t tell me what’s going on but Hermione reckons that.._

Putting a quill into ink and writing grammatically correct sentences about how she felt was as impossible as going to the pub with Finlay. Tonks summoned a bottle of beer from the fridge, popping its cap away into a corner. Then she pointed her wand at a can of baked beans until it shook with heat and flipped the lid of that too. She slurped from each in turn - hot beans, cold fizzy beer - barely tasting either and sat on the bed. It was time for the news on the wireless. 

_Our top story this evening is the shocking murders of Matilda and Rufus Cass. A husband and wife publishing team known for their colourful enchanted picture book series, ‘The Adventures of Muggleborn Milly’…_

_The Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation has resigned twenty-four hours after being found walking alongside the M25, disorientated and showing signs of having been tortured…_

_The British and Irish Quidditch League have decided to cancel this year’s Autumn Cup in the wake of threats against a number of players…_

No werewolves. No unidentified bodies. But no relief either. Only a terrible coldness. Tonks turned off the radio and reached for the Daily Prophet. Its pages were stuck together with that morning’s coffee stains. As she read, she toasted some bread with her wand and plunged it into the beans. She chewed unconsciously, without relish, eating because she knew that if she didn’t she wouldn’t be strong enough to fight. When she reached the crossrunes, she let the paper slide out of her hands to splay on the floor. 

This was the worst part of the evening. When her nightly routine ran dry and she was left with only herself. 

With a flick of her wand, a disc started spinning in the record player and the needle scratched down. The first few notes hit her with a burn of nostalgia that made tears jump to her eyes. She blinked them away and began to drift around the room: opening another beer; running her hands through her hair until it felt greasy; watching the seconds tick by until the next news report. Mildred murdered a vole on the windowsill, gleefully pecking through delicate bones and smudging blood across the wood. She at least adored their relocation to the countryside. 

Even when Tonks’ chin began to bob down to her chest, she resisted sleep. She knew what would happen if she succumbed and she was afraid of it. Only when she woke with a jerk to find herself slumped on the floor with her head against the table leg did she finally pull her robes off, scour her mouth with toothpaste, and bury herself beneath the duvet. But the moment her head hit the pillow, it was as if the memories had been lying in wait amongst the feathers: there were the stone stairs rising to meet her; there was the rippling veil; there was the distant shape of Sirius leaping, athletic and alive, with his wand raised. 

Suddenly Tonks was horribly awake. Her body felt hot. She pushed the duvet off herself with her feet, used her wand to jerk back the curtains and lay on her side with moonlight on her bare arms and legs. She drew her legs up and hugged them, placing her cheek on a clammy knee. On her bedside table she could see Sirius for real. His sardonic smile, heavy black brows and cut-glass cheekbones. He didn’t live to see the freedom he deserved. She’d let him down. The tears came heavy, making her head pound. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the empty room.

She stared and stared at the photograph. Then her eyes moved to the face of the man beside him. Remus. She felt ill with longing. He was smiling too but...there was something beneath it...a reticence, an uncertainty. The tiny moving version of him captured by the camera kept making small, uncertain glances at the floor. She hadn’t noticed anything like that at the time. She was standing on his other side, her head crowned with corkscrewing violet curls, grinning and gormless - utterly oblivious to what was coming. It was the only photo of them she had. She’d insisted they take it. It had been Remus’ thirty-sixth birthday. 

Tonks tried to remember every detail from that night. How, tipsy and alone in his room, he’d kissed her with lips so soft they made her giddy. How his gentle touch and the fire she knew he was trying to repress had sent her wild. How she’d pushed him down onto the bed. Tonks tried to remember the exact sensations: her palm at the nape of his neck, his hot breath on her collarbone, the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh sliding against his waist. He’d held her, said her name, allowed himself to moan in pleasure, and she had felt the full force of the love that she wouldn’t be able to find the words to express until months later; until it was far too late. But his body could now be cold and empty. Tonks rolled herself tight in the duvet, trying to smother the sobs. What she wouldn’t give to hear his voice again, to wake up in the morning and see him sitting on the end of her bed, mug of tea in hand, as if the nightmare of their parting had never happened. 

_“I can’t love you,”_ he’d said. _“I don’t.”_

Her pillow was wet through. The night felt as though it would never end.

——————-

But the night ended as it always did and September the 1st saw Tonks fifty feet above the ground, leaning forward on her broom as she followed the path of the scarlet steam engine below. She flew with such speed that it rushed in her ears like thunder, keeping level with the Hogwarts Express as it bolted across the land, staying at an angle so its billowing white clouds didn’t obscure her vision. Somewhere above the North Pennines, Tonks and Proudfoot had relieved two other Aurors and taken over guard of the train, cloaked in charms to make them look like soaring ospreys to any muggles. The force of the wind made her limp hair strain at the roots as she stared around, looking for the slightest sign of other broomsticks; for the flicker of a Dementor’s cloak; for any sign of interference with the train. A hint of trouble and she could summon a battalion of Aurors by shouting a code word into the gold crest pinned to her robes. 

She flew higher until the train became a tiny red snake amongst the green expanse, then lower again - fast enough that the thrill made her stomach leap - until she was close enough to see the bricks in the Glenfinnan Viaduct; the ripples on Loch Shiel. She imagined attacks from left and right, a flying ambush by masked figures. She imagined the duel that would ensue: she and Proudfoot flinging spells, looping in the air to avoid the flurry of death curses; perhaps Tonks’ curse would find its mark and throw a Death Eater off their broom, sending them spiralling down to the ground, black curls flying from behind a mask that slipped off and smashed seconds before the body did; or perhaps Tonks herself, still too slow, would be hurled from her broom and plummet into the unknown. She imagined the sudden shift of gravity, the lightness of slipping backwards into death and wondered whether that was how Sirius had felt. 

She gave herself to the speed, to the oblivion of it: if she flew fast enough, with turns sharp enough, everything could blur, could be erased. The speed allowed her to feel free, to almost pretend she was alright again. In the sky, with her eyes fixed down on the train, there was no _“you’re going to be fine without me”_ , there was no veil. But the castle gradually appeared on the horizon and the train slowed, forcing her to do the same. When the train chugged to a halt at Hosgmeade Station, Tonks came into land within the bows of an oak tree and her heart rate slowed back to normal. She counted every head as the students noisily disembarked the train, recognising bushy dark curls, one cascade of tangerine and one mop of the same - but not the messy tangle of black she was looking for. That Harry Potter had gotten himself into some sort of scrape on the train was no surprise though and, sure enough, there was one carriage with its curtains pulled incongruously shut. She boarded the train to fetch Sirius’ godson, hoping the numbness would last, knowing it wouldn’t.

—————

“I think you were better off with the old one. The new one looks weak.” 

Snape’s pupils, black as the night that cloaked the three of them, seemed to dilate with pleasure as he spoke. Then he turned and began, with his usual bat-like grace, to retreat towards the castle. Harry hovered for a second, confused. 

“Goodnight,” he called, over his shoulder. “Thanks for…everything.”

“See you, Harry.” 

Her voice was small, stifled by fury. Only when Snape’s bobbing lantern was finally enveloped by blackness, did Tonks let out the explosion. She kicked the cast iron gates, which barely rattled, and seethed, her fists clenched, wanting to spit fire as the strangled mutters of “fuck you, fuck you, fuck you” burst from her lips. Remus wasn’t weak, Remus was the greatest man she’d ever known and Snape was every foul insult she’d ever heard Sirius give him - Snape was a slimy, friendless creep, a sinister, lonely coward, a greasy fucking bastard, and she wanted to rip his hideous head right off his worthless neck. She paced the grass which began quickly to turn to mud. Remus wasn’t weak: he was risking his life every day, risking a terrible, painful death if Greyback’s werewolves found out who he was. But Tonks’ anger, like a rising storm, was spreading further than Snape and she kept seeing Remus as he had been just before he’d left her; the way he hadn’t quite been able to hold back a tear, betraying himself, how he had refused to listen to her and only offered the same empty, condescending compliments, how he’d abandoned her by apparating too suddenly for her to stop him. Because Remus was also the liar who said he didn’t love her, the traitor who used his own safety as a threat to keep her away, the coward who was too afraid to accept her love. He _was_ weak. And so was she. Tonks, wanting to kill the maelstrom of contradictions in her head, kicked again at the gate. Pain flared worse this time and she gave out a gasping scream at the crack inside her boot. She fumbled for her wand and, for the second time that evening, fixed a broken bone. The winged boars seemed to glare down at her from their perch atop the gates. She panted, the physical pain fading and her mind gradually calming as if purified by the shock of it. 

Then it was only her and the long, lonely tree-lined path leading back to the village. It stretched out, narrow and unwelcoming, the route that would take her back to her attic, her purgatory, her tiny part in a war so much bigger than her. Dread rooted her to the spot. Summer was gone and soon the cold would press in. All the unknowable days she was facing seemed to stretch and multiply into infinity. Time was a weight on her chest. 

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to be alone. She tried to remember lying on grass, with the sun blaring down through a tangle of tree branches above her - in her head it was Spring and there were buds about to open, twigs in her hair, and all the joys of Remus beside her. She looked into his eyes and felt so certain, so happy…and…and… It was this memory Tonks had used to conjure the patronus she had intended for Hagrid, but she kept losing it, the details collapsing under the intrusion of other memories, more terribly vivid, rising up to replace it ( _“why are you trying to throw yourself away on me?”_ ). She threw her head back in frustration. She tried something else: she was eighteen, holding a letter of acceptance from the Auror Department and dancing around Nana Tonks’ flat: her nana was beaming and clapping, saying she was going to be just like a witch James Bond, whoever that was, and she felt so - 

The shining form came gliding out of Tonks’ wand tip, illuminating the path in a plume of glowing silver. The wolf walked without being bid, as if knowing what she wanted. She followed it. She watched its graceful, loping strides, its fur which shimmered like moonlit water, its tail - so long and thick - which bobbed low to the ground. Tonks stopped in her tracks and the wolf stopped too. It turned its lupine head and stared back at her, as silent and untouchable as the man who was its source. She stared at it, studying every detail of its features. The eyes were round and intelligent, the snout was long and elegant. When the realisation struck her, Tonks made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. The ghost of a smile lit up her face, just for a second. 

“It’s not a werewolf” she murmured. “Remus, you bloody idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, friends! Next chapter, we see what Remus has been up to...


	3. Alban

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: description of graphic injury

**Chapter 3: Alban**

Remus became himself again with the smell of dirt in his nostrils and the crackle of grit in his back teeth. The wolf’s front legs must have given way just before the end because his arms were trapped, twisted and throbbing, between his ribcage and the ground. His memory was a sensuous blur: running, howling, rolling in the grass with the others. But now he had a sickening ache in every limb. He tried to ease himself up onto his elbows, but his belly hit the dirt again with the first of many convulses of pain. He could only lie, naked and streaked with soil, unmoving on the ground. Gradually, he became aware of how very cold the morning air was.

Peeling his forehead off the earth, he managed to slump onto his side. Blinking, he saw a grey sky and crows flying high above. They couldn’t see the seventy-eight werewolves sprawled over the land below them but still they made their guttural cries, reminding Remus of vultures as their shadows stroked the yard. A soft chorus of moans and hoarse swearing began to rise around Remus. The others were stirring. Remus pulled himself into a sitting position, despising the ill-fitting feel of his skin, the spasmodic way his joints clicked. His teeth began to chatter and he wrapped his arms tight around himself. A man in front of him rocked forward and back, head buried in his hands. Somewhere behind him, he heard weeping. Then, close to his left, Remus heard a familiar hacking cough.

“Cariad?” Remus’ voice was like the crunch of gravel as he turned and spoke to a woman whose thick grey curls were caked in mud. “How are you feeling?” 

“Yeah, yeah, uhm…” she said, swallowing heavily. “I’m fine. You know, I think…it’s all getting easier…like they said it would….what about you?” 

Remus twitched his mouth in an almost-smile, but his heart was sick. Cariad was lying to him. She looked even worse than last month: all bloodshot eyes and knees that knocked together uncontrollably. But he couldn’t resent her for wanting what the camp promised.

“Perhaps a little easier, yes,” he said and, knowing that even the worst lie could become more believable with a grain of truth, added “I don’t miss the injuries I used to inflict on myself when I was alone.” 

The desperate hope in her smile was terrible. Remus guessed she was about fifty, but knew she had only lived six months of the infection. Unlike his own scar, broad and stretched from his body’s growth from child to adult, the mark on her forearm was the exact dimensions of a werewolf’s jaw. A puckered, angry brand that told of a life only recently destroyed.

“Yes - it’s good that we’re all together,” she said, her voice cracking. “We don’t have to tear at ourselves. We’re starting to…what’s the word they always use?”

“I can’t remember,” Remus lied. 

“ _Commune_. That’s it. We’re starting to commune with the other half of ourselves. Because we accept each other, we accept our own wolf and so it accepts us,” she sounded like a child reciting a story committed to memory, “which makes us stronger, makes everything easier to bear.”

Lesson one: the pain was a gateway, a necessary purification. It was to be embraced and suffered gladly because it delivered them from human weakness to the glorious wolf state. The transformation proved their superiority and a true werewolf should never feel dread at its coming. Remus was still trying to find the right words to describe such notions - dangerous nonsense, deluded wish-fulfilment, utter hippogriff shit - but nothing quite plumbed the depths of their malice, of the manipulative power they had over the hopeless. But he needed to be careful. Every one of his words, every ounce of his subversion, had to be rationed.

Wincing, Remus stood. He helped Cariad to her feet - the flesh of her arms wrinkling at his touch, clammy with sweat - and began doing the same for any others who struggled, murmuring words of encouragement when he could. Anyone who wasn’t able to stand got dragged. Greyback’s camp leaders had limited patience for weakness - and they were always watching. Slowly, haltingly, the crowd of werewolves made for the tunnel. A few among them were still self-conscious, trying to cover themselves with their hands. Remus’ instincts screamed at him to do the same, but he had quickly learnt to pick his battles here: if he was going to bring unwanted attention to himself, it had to be for a worthier reason than squeamishness. So he walked naked. Remus Lupin would have hated it. But he wasn't Remus Lupin anymore.

The tunnel was made of concrete and led down into bunker-style rows of rooms. The air underground was as cold as the crisp October morning above, the floor like ice to bare feet. Remus and Cariad were the first to return to Section Eight. They hurriedly pulled on the muggle clothes they’d taken off the evening before - grey tracksuit bottoms, black t-shirts, black jumpers - without looking at each other or speaking. Cariad crawled beneath the woollen blanket on the wide, grey-mattressed palette that served as their bed and lay face down, shivering. The next to return was the man who called himself Turnskin: Section Eight was ‘lucky’ enough to have a camp leader of its own. He stood in the doorway, his rib-lined rangey body heaving. He released a humourless, snorting laugh at the sight of them: Cariad cowering on the bed like a wounded animal, Remus staring down at the floor in a jumper that drowned his wasting frame. 

“You two look like shit,” he rasped. “You’ve got a long way to go.” 

Remus resisted the temptation to respond in kind. Though Turnskin affected a swagger, there were dark pouches under his eyes and his skin was sun-deprived and mottled. They lay down on either side of Cariad: Turnskin in the warmer spot to her right, Remus at the bed’s cold edge. His head felt heavier than the concrete that surrounded them. Then the door slammed open again and someone half-fell through it: Section Eight’s final member.

“Fuck me, that was a beautiful moon!”

Seventeen but with a ten-year-old scar on his thigh, Jem had wild, wide eyes and closely shorn hair. His long fingers gripped the doorframe for balance, but his teeth were bared in a grin.

“Swear down, I’ve never felt so free in my life. Only thing missing was something I could hunt! I remember the whole thing as well - we were running, we were all running together, under the moon. Uh, it was fucking beautiful.” 

The boy collapsed onto the far end of the palette. Remus stifled a moan at how it made his sore bones rattle.

“Fuh-n beau-full,” he said again, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Everyone together,” whispered Cariad. “How it’s meant to be.” 

They were so tightly packed that Remus could feel her breath on his neck. There was something hot seeping through the back of his jumper and he could smell a vague metallic tang: Cariad’s bite wound must have reopened again. It could take a whole year for werewolf bites to heal properly and until then they oozed with dark, contaminated blood. Remus only had one clear memory of his own wound: sitting on the edge of the bathtub in his parents’ first house, picking and picking at the lumpy scabs. It had been excruciating. Fat tears fell from his eyes and mingled with the blood he was pushing out of himself. The blood was spreading bright scarlet across his mum’s fluffy bathmat, but he had to do it - he had to get _the bad thing out_. His father had found him before he'd passed out. Remus expected a scolding, but instead his father had cried, crumpled to the floor, and only said sorry, sorry, sorry. It was confusing to a five year old. It would be many years until Remus understood. 

“Alban?” Cariad’s voice was weak, barely audible. 

“Hm,” Remus replied. 

“When do you think they’ll give us our wands back?” 

_They won’t._

“When we’re ready.” 

“Why the fuck do you even want it back?” It was Jem, still awake, his passionate intensity soured by pain and exhaustion. “Have you forgotten the stuff they told us? Mastering our real power is more important. No point being dependent on a stick. Fuckssake, you two are still brainwashed. You’re desperate to keep copying _them_. It’s embarrassing.” 

Lesson two: wands were a symbol of the arrogance of non-werewolves and couldn’t compare to the might of a werewolf at the full moon. They were confiscated on entry to the camp with the promise of being returned when they were strong enough not to be distracted by them in their journey to communion with the wolf. It was a lie, of course. Voldemort wouldn’t think his werewolf army worthy of wands. It was easier to control them that way; easier to push them into obsession with Greyback’s ideology; easier to turn them into the mindless, blood-thirsty militia he wanted. Besides, only a minority even owned them to begin with. Jem, like so many others, was never given the opportunity to be chosen by a wand.

“Sorry Jem. You’re right,” said Cariad in her smallest voice. 

“Shut the fuck up all of you,” said Turnskin. “The sun’s up. That means sleep.” 

No sunlight, only moonlight. None of them would be permitted to eat or leave the tunnels until sundown. Remus lay still, listening to the breathing around him deepening, waiting until it was safe. His eyes watered, longing to close. He began seeing strange shapes forming and swirling in the dark corners of the room, but he wouldn’t succumb. Only when he was certain the others were asleep did he slip a hand out from beneath the blanket and place it on the cold metal of the bed’s edge. He concentrated on every tiny cell in the palm of his hand and then on the smooth line of the thing he had hidden; the bright life at its core. His lips repeated a silent incantation, the metal beneath his hand opened and Remus closed his fingers around his wand. He savoured the weight of it in his hand, the familiarity of its shape calming him. He had surrendered a wand on his first day, but it wasn’t this one - with all their tricks removed, Fred and George’s replicas really were remarkably convincing.

Remus shifted slightly, aiming his wand behind him: Cariad’s wound needed cleaning. But he couldn’t hold onto this remnant of his old life for long. He had to hide it. Keeping as still as possible, he slipped the wand under his waistband, moving it down until its tip pressed into the skin of his inner thigh. He numbed the flesh and began to tunnel. The wand pierced his skin and he pushed it up through layers of fat and muscle, hot blood soaking his clothes. When he’d squeezed it deep enough into its hiding place, he sealed the wound and vanished the blood. It would be safe now. Until the next full moon.

His body begged for rest, but every morning was the same: on the cusp of sleep, his mind sought to betray him. His thoughts wanted to take him somewhere without concrete and cold, where the night wasn’t never-ending and hate wasn’t served up with every meal. It always started with a dream-like wondering…where was she…what was she doing…how was she feeling…At this hour, she was probably still asleep, perhaps burrowed into the sheets with only a fluorescent tuft of hair visible on the pillow. Remus’ eyes closed and memory enveloped him, he remembered kissing that mess of hair, so soft against his lips, as she lay with her cheek against his chest, mumbling something incoherent. His head exploded with her and he saw every wonderful, mundane moment: Tonks horizontal on the faded velvet sofa of Grimmauld Place’s library, wrenching a boot off to reveal a yellow badger-patterned sock; Tonks scratching her head with a quill during an Order meeting; Tonks grinning her wickedest grin, about to soar in wild loops on her broom. Tonks…Dora…Tonks…The longing was enough to make him get out of bed and start running.

He knew where to find her. Molly had told him. Though the knowledge had come with an agonising twist of temptation, he had felt relief too: with Dumbledore so near, Hogsmeade was safer than most. It was a good place for her to forget him. Remus knew he had made the right decision - the only decision. Tonks was free and he was…here. No more friendship. No more pleasure. No more love. But his heart hammered as if in protestation, as if demanding that he listen to it.

_“It’s what you want, you just have to be brave enough…”_

It was the post-transformation fever. That was what made him hear, close as if in his ear, a low confident growl of a voice. Sirius’ voice. It happened sometimes when his tiredness crossed over into delirium. Only a fantasy. Then again… it would be rather typical of Sirius...to briefly return from the dead with the sole intention of delivering irresponsible advice...

_Stop it, Sirius,_ he replied to the dead echo. _I made the choice. It’s all over. I had to do it. For her._

_“You’re a right stubborn fool sometimes.”_

Remus' chest contracted with a laugh that was really a sob. How he missed Sirius Black….

_Sirius. I truly despise this place. Help me._

_“Sleep, old friend…”_

—————————

Remus woke at sunset. Racked with cramps, he dragged his body from the bed and left Section Eight to their fitful sleep. Outside, Remus leant for a moment against the tunnel’s side and mourned the sun as it died, watching the burn of pink fade into night, the black skeletons of the trees on the horizon vanish from view. He walked slowly across the dark expanse of the yard to the makeshift hut that served as a kitchen. Inside, his workmate - Dom, Section Six - was already there, hunched over a table and cutting potatoes in the muggle way. Remus’ greeting was met with a grunt, the same as every morning.

A huge fire was maturing in the centre of the room and Remus began his work of setting five cauldrons of water over it. Into the boiling liquid went the potatoes, a tumble of salt, armfuls of cabbage and chunks of fatty pork. As it bubbled, a white film formed on the surface. The smell made Remus’ already uneasy stomach flutter. It was the same smell that lived in the fibres of his clothes, the strands of hair that fell to his shoulders and the follicles of the scrubby beard he wore. Because of the obliteration of the monthly transformations, natural changes were Remus’ only sustainable disguise. But he knew he looked different: what little weight he had to lose had dropped off, leaving his body tight and sinewy; dirt had settled into the lines of his face and darkened his hair.

He didn’t want to know what had become of his predecessor, but landing work in the camp kitchen had been a rare stroke of luck. If he stood beside the store cupboard, with an extendable ear up his sleeve, he could hear the leaders’ conversation in their private hut beside it. All he had to do was prepare two hardy, though identical, meals every day. No werewolf group could afford even this paltry level of infrastructure and food supply, but Remus knew where the funding came from. Every werewolf living at the camp was dependent on the Death Eaters for food.

As the stew simmered its way to edible, Remus laid metal bowls along the long wooden tables that were arranged in rows out in the yard. It would have taken mere seconds with magic, but Remus had to set them down with stiff, freezing fingers; pausing every now and again to wait for a wave of faintness to pass. There was a whoosh and a smell of gasoline: the great bonfire had been lit and its flames cut the night sky, illuminating the yard in orange. It was time. Remus rang the bell. Trudging and stumbling, the camp emerged and took their places on the benches. Dishing up was usually a valuable method of intelligence gathering; by moving between the different groups of the camp, Remus could gage the mood, hear what was being said and memorise the names and section numbers of any newcomers. But tonight there was little talk. Most just lolled forward on the bench, looking as ill as Remus felt.

When the stew was served, he sat down with the rest of Section Eight. Lumps of bread and jugs of Dark Side - a brutally strong white spirit, always in plentiful supply - were passed around. The alcohol hit Remus' empty stomach like a scald of boiling water. Tonight a woman sat with them who Remus hadn’t spoken to before. Mara, Section Four. Her black hair was so long that its frayed ends touched the table. Like many werewolves, it was hard to guess her precise age. She held her fork in her left hand, because her right was missing: all that remained was a wrist encircled with black, lycanthropic scar tissue.

“I hate this stuff. I feel too sick to eat,” she muttered. 

“Watch out, Alban made that - you don’t want to get on the wrong side of him,” said Jem, with a mocking wink.

“How come you got work in the kitchen?”

“Got your eye on my job, have you?” 

Remus smiled at her to show he was joking, but Mara only glared and shrugged.

“Anything’s better than digging the shit pits.” 

“Well, that is rather bad luck,” said Remus, as Jem laughed into his stew. “But anything that makes our camp stronger is still honourable labour.”

“You're such a posh twat, Alban,” said Jem. “‘Honourable labour’? Fucking hell…”

Remus ignored him, but felt a twinge of unease. His scar was too old to try and pass himself off as just-bitten and fresh from the world outside. If he was too genteel, too wizarding in his demeanor it would invite questions. He was supposed to be cultivating another personality but it seemed he couldn’t escape himself no matter what name he carried. 

“I’ll see if I can get you a spot in the kitchen too,” he said to Mara. “With all these new arrivals, we’ll need help soon enough.”

“They didn’t say anything about working when I got here…” said Mara, pushing her food around.

“You should be grateful,” snapped Jem, mood swinging from jocular to aggressive in an instant. “We’re in the middle of a fight for our lives - not on a fucking holiday! This is the front line right here. Why d’you wanna be treated like a child? It's not like...whatsit...that place…you know?…the school? Where all the little darlings get fattened up and taught how to kill our kind?"

“Hogwarts," said Cariad, quietly, reluctant to join the argument. “But…well…it wasn’t…quite like that...when I was there…"

“I never got to go,” said Remus loudly then, changing the subject, “Who’s giving the talk tonight?”

“Silver.”

Jem could always be relied upon to know these things. Remus caught himself before he frowned. Silver was the best speaker by far.

“One night it’ll be Greyback,” Jem continued, leaning forward with a glint in his dark eyes. “He’s going to come any day now.” 

Mara winced. “I fucking hope not.”

Jem whirled around in his seat. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? You can’t seriously still believe everything you’ve heard? It's all twisted up with lies, all part of the propaganda against us!"

Mara looked back at him unblinkingly. “I didn’t read it in some stupid paper. It was friends that told me about him. Friends I trusted."

“Friends?” Jem said the word like an accusation. “Where are they now if they were such good friends?” 

Dead. All dead. Remus could tell by the blaze in Mara’s eyes, but Jem barrelled ahead:

“The only people worth listening to are here, not out there!” 

Mara dropped her fork to the table with a clatter. Cariad flinched. 

"I never even wanted to come here.” 

"Then why did you?” 

“Where else was there to go? I used to have a bit of work with the muggles - building type stuff, odd jobs, cash in hand. But they started asking questions. They must have thought I was illegal or something and got scared. I wanted to leave the country, try and find a new start, but my money all ran out. And I bet they wouldn't even let me in one of them international apparition centres, not without a wand, not without ever learning how to do it. So I came here. I thought it would be like a community or something but instead it’s just getting told how to think.” 

“It _is_ a community," said Jem, fiercely. "If you don't think so, why don’t you fuck off somewhere else?"

“I told you, there is no _somewhere else_! I’ve got no way to get by out there. There's only one option left but I swore I'd never turn tricks again. I can't go back to that."

The group fell silent. Jem looked sullen. Cariad chewed her nails. 

“What the hell do you know anyway?” Mara demanded. “You don’t know nothing about my life so don’t judge me. You’re just a kid. A little boy.” 

“I know more than you!” Jen spat. “I know that Greyback’s more powerful than anyone and that’s why they out there hate him the most. I know he’s the one to lead us to better things, get stronger, multiply.”

“That's all fucking bullshit, don’t you know that we’ll end up straight in Azkaban or killed on sight if we started biting people? Why would you wish this hell on anyone anyway?"

Remus risked a glance to check whether any of the camp leaders were listening. Mara was speaking far too loudly and such words were dangerous. He wished he could warn her. Blatant defiance would lead to expulsion, or worse.

“If that’s what you think, you don’t belong here with us _real werewolves_. We’re - ” 

“Every werewolf is welcome here,” said Remus, his voice firm as he interrupted the apoplectic Jem. “It’s natural and normal for there to be differences of opinion amongst us. We're not the homogenous group that the media like to claim we are, are we? The most important thing is that we’re here together, talking things through. I for one would like to hear Greyback speak. I’d like to judge him with my own eyes - only then can we decide what is truth and what are lies. Jem,” Remus spoke directly to the boy, "your passion is a credit to you and believe me I admire it - you’re exactly the kind of werewolf we need. But we werewolves will only rise up if we’re capable of thinking independently. Of making our own minds up about what is right.” 

“I get what you’re saying…I guess…” said Jem. He looked suddenly just as young as he was, taken aback by the compliment. “But what’s there for us to judge? Half this camp was changed by Greyback - they all owe him. He’s the one who set this place up. We’ve got this opportunity ‘cause of him.”

_What has this boy suffered that makes him believe this place is an opportunity?_

“I suppose what I’m saying is that I believe in choice," said Remus. "In freedom. How many werewolves here would say that they chose this life? That they chose to transform every month for the rest of their lives; to lose their family, their friends, any chance of making an honest living?" 

"I didn't choose this," whispered Cariad.

“Me neither,” said a new voice.

A man with a shaven head sitting nearby - Arn, Section Ten - had leaned in to join the conversation. There were others listening now too. Remus felt their eyes on him.

"Exactly. And Greyback _does_ change children - that isn’t a rumour made up by the press. I don’t know where they’re being kept, but it’s not here. How can a child choose?” 

“They can’t but…but it's not Greyback's fault that society out there makes their - our - lives miserable!” said Jem. 

"Infecting children on purpose hardly helps society's perception of us does it? Soulless. That’s how people see us. Well, it does seem soulless to attack children doesn’t it?”

Mara was staring at Remus intently, nodding slowly. Remus leaned forward slightly and met the eyes of all those listening to him.

“Can it really be right to glorify the spreading of -?”

“Are you saying there's something wrong with being a werewolf?” 

A nervous hush fell. It was Silver, standing over them. Her hair was a white-blond mass and her eyes were rimmed in black. Each of her nails was sharpened to a point. 

“No," Remus said, evenly. “Of course not.” 

"Are you sure - Alban, is it? Because it sounds to me like you've let all the lies about our kind poison your thoughts. A child given the gift of the full moon can leave its weak parents behind and become stronger than it ever could before. It can have a new family," Silver gestured around at the tables though her eyes bored into Remus'. “We are both beast and being. The strength, power and beauty of one; the ingenuity and cunning of the other. We're trying to prove that to you - all you need to do is let us."

Silver leant forward through the gap between Jem and Cariad to grasp Remus' wrist in her hands. She pushed up the sleeve of his jumper and sighed as she turned his wrist over in her hands. She traced the line of one of his silver scars, the light scrape of her nails leaving a trail of goosebumps. When she spoke, her tone was intimate and mournful. 

“You were locking yourself up before you came here, weren’t you? You were all alone." 

There was no point denying it so Remus said nothing. It was all he could do not to recoil. He wanted to rip his arm out of her clutches, but he knew he had to submit as she stroked the lengths of his scars from his hand to the bend of his elbow. 

"You’ve hurt yourself so badly. You felt so much shame that you locked yourself away in the dark - away from the light of the moon. Shame leaves its own scars, you know," her eyes searched his, "I can see those too." 

Her face was close now. Her breath smelt of charred pig skin and it was hot against the hair of his cheek. Her nails suddenly broke the skin of his forearm like a pincer. 

“It is your time to listen," she whispered, for his ear only. “Not to speak.” 

Then she straightened up and spoke to the group, her voice filling the yard, her hair bright and cheeks hollow in the light of the bonfire. Everyone stared at her, entranced - any ideas Remus had given them surely forgotten. Only Mara was impassive.

“Alban is not the only one of you who has been taught to feel shame. You’ve all been force-fed lies. I was like you once. I hated every transformation. I believed what they told me - I thought I was worthless, dirty, inferior. But then…” she sighed again and stretched her bare arms above her head so that moonlight gleamed on her skin, "my eyes were opened. I entered a communion with the wolf. I learned that my body was in partnership with something pure and sublime. We who hold the power of the moon can crush any enemy. Fenrir Greyback taught me that.”

Of course he did. Silver was one of the children Greyback had taken. Too young and frightened to doubt, she would have been moulded by a steady campaign of hate and bloodlust. The leaders were vicious, but they had been terrified, bleeding children crying out for their parents once. Just like Remus had been.

"You haven't been as fortunate as us," Silver nodded towards Turnskin and the others, sitting at their own table. "If he could have taken care of all of you, he would have. A werewolf living in self-denial is a tragic thing. But you're here with us now. The world outside doesn't care about you but we do. It is time to purge yourselves of all that pain, rejection and abuse and start anew. But no more talking from me - tonight is about all of you. Who has a story they’d like to share with us?”

Remus blinked in surprise as Cariad raised a nervous hand.

“I have a story. I - I think I’m ready to tell it.”

The tables rumbled as the camp drummed their cups in encouragement.

“I know I’m a little different from most of you…I used to think werewolves were disgusting, were evil….I was a, um, a normal witch for fifty years…”

Silver smiled, but her eyes were deadly cold.

"You're one of us now. Speak."

"H-her name was Sophie. We met when I used to work in a shop on Diagon Alley. She came in to buy some black beetle eyes for a hair potion and we just...got talking. That was almost thirty years ago now. We made a life together. A good life. We always dreamt of travelling together when we retired. We were so far away from home when...when it happened. It was too late for a walk in the forest, I knew that, but I couldn’t say no to her...she loved it among the trees so much, she wanted to look up at the stars from between the leaves. And it was such a clear night. The moon was…so bright. S-sophie was always faster than me, better at spells. When it came for us she…she got away, but I tripped. I called out to her but…she was gone…and I…”

Cariad lowered her head, her fingers tangling amongst her curls. 

“Keep going," Silver urged, a terrible hunger in her tone.

Cariad looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“When we got home she said…she said that it wasn’t me anymore…that I'd died in that forest. She said the infection had killed me and all that was left was a shell with…with a _monster_ inside. But it's not true! I'm still me, the person she loved! But she wouldn’t listen. She left."

Cariad let out a whimper before collapsing into hacking coughs. She reached out for Remus’ hand and he took it. It was freezing cold.

“They never say ‘I don’t care you're a werewolf, you're still my wife, daughter, son, friend, sister' do they?" Said Silver, disgust etched into her features. 

There was a ripple of bitter laughter. Remus tried to join in but he felt winded, like all the oxygen had suddenly left the night air. Silver squeezed Cariad’s shaking shoulder.

“You’ve come to the very best place. Your next lover will be worthier of you. You and she will dance together under the full moon. That’s what you deserve. Who else has a story for us tonight?” 

The next man to speak (“…I gave my whole life to that job. Never felt so pathetic in my life as I did that day…") was known to Remus, but not from the camp. Mason, now of Section Two, had occupied the same ward as Arthur Weasley after his snake bite. Remus looked away to hide his face. Though Mason had shown no signs of recognising Remus with his new ragged appearance, it was still a risk. Silver was striding the lengths of the tables now as more stories came thick and fast, getting louder and louder as the Dark Side kicked in.

“…your mum and dad’s sposed to look out for you aren’t they? No matter what? Mine just left me there to die, like I was nothing…”

“…I never wanted to hurt no one, but I needed the money…what choice did I have?” 

"...they told me I was scum but I'll show them! They'll be begging to be like me one day…!"

The noise was becoming overwhelming: the bonfire crackling and voices rising like a storm, Silver’s throaty laugh cutting through it all.

“But…Alban…” Cariad was leaning forward, desperate for Remus to hear her through the tumult, “I don’t want anyone else! I only want Sophie.”

Before Remus could answer, Jem finished his fifth Dark Side and bumped his shoulder against hers.

“You know what you need to do then, don’t you?” He roared. “Make her worthy of you!"

Remus’ heart jumped to his throat.

“Cariad, no, listen to me - ” he began.

But she had pulled away from him and was staring, a little wild-eyed now, at Silver who had leapt on top of one of the tables. 

“Our struggle for freedom is getting harder and harder every day! We need to be united! How can we do nothing in the face of this?” 

She brandished something and waved it high. A Daily Prophet. At the sight of it, the camp erupted into furious jeers. Silver began to recite articles - greater powers granted to the Beast Division; the passing of a law banning the renting of rooms to werewolves; a new wing in the dungeons of Azkaban - then, as the cacophony rose, she simply screamed out individual phrases: ‘animalistic’, ‘not to be trusted’, ‘lesser intelligence’. She tore the pages and hurled the fragments into the bonfire.

  
“They want the world to hate us!” She was yelling at the top of her lungs now. “They want us to hate ourselves! They want us all dead! They're terrified because they know we are more powerful than they are!" 

She pointed up to the sky and seventy-eight heads looked up.

“They want you to fear the moon. We’ll teach you to love it.” 

The swell of cheering that followed was rapturous. Despite the sickness that united them, every werewolf pounded their cups, hands, bowls on the table, some stood up on the benches, some wept, some began to sing the strange folk songs of the camp. Remus felt a terrible certainty curdle in his stomach: he was failing. What compelling case could he possibly make against lesson three: the world outside hated them and always would? He may have sent Dumbledore every piece of information he could gather - numbers, rumours, names, locations - and done his best to befriend and comfort, but what of sowing dissent and discouraging violence? How could he win hearts and minds when all that waited for them outside was ostracism?

He was the only one who could help them. The only one who might be able to pull them back from the unspeakable fate Voldemort planned for them and Greyback disguised as glorious vengeance. He had to surrender himself. He had to go deeper. He had to be Alban, whoever that was. So Remus bumped his cup of Dark Side against the others’, drank to the moon, and tore strips of flesh off bone with his teeth and swallowed it down with a liar’s grin; the moon he would always fear blaring down on him; all the while thinking he had no idea how he was going to survive until Christmas; trying not to remember the one - Dora, she wanted him to call her, Dora - who told him that she didn’t care he was a werewolf, that he could still be hers; feeling grateful only that she couldn’t see what he’d become.


	4. Spilling the Ink

**Chapter 4: Spilling the Ink**

“Wash your mouth out, Auror Tonks. The Death Eaters' little plan failed. We should be feeling relieved not throwing blame around and swearing like a pack of gnomes!” 

“Relieved?!” Tonks knotted her arms tight and seethed at her colleagues. “A student was almost killed and castle security was this close,” Tonks mimed with her finger and thumb, “to being breached. This was a momentous fuck-up.”

The air in the tiny backroom of Hogsmeade Village Hall was close. Dawlish looked as if he'd swallowed a live wizzbee: the post-crisis debrief was not going as planned. 

"A combination of bad luck and bad timing. But the girl's going to be fine so no harm done! That half-giant got her back to the castle remarkably qui - "

"His name is Hagrid! And he saved our bacon so the least you could do is remember his damn name! Us four are a bunch of prize flobberworms.”

"Why don't you calm down?" Said Proudfoot. 

"There's no need to get emotional,” said Dawlish, bristling.

Finlay Savage said nothing.

"Oh, sod off. All of you."

As the door slammed behind her, she caught the word “unprofessional” but didn’t give a toss: they were a so-called elite squad who couldn’t even prevent some half-baked amateur causing harm to the students they were sworn to protect. And instead of trying to learn something from the fiasco, all they cared about was brushing it under the rug. She was as pissed off with herself as she was with them, but at least she had the balls to admit it. Mad Eye would agree with her, she knew, but there were no aurors like Mad Eye left. 

The village had seemed so normal that day - right up until she’d run into Harry pinning Mundungus against a wall, a crockery set spilling out onto the pavement. She’d felt a strange detachment at the sight: Sirius had hated that stuff; used to use the delicate china teacups for Buckbeak’s drinking water. The crest was beloved by Bellatrix, not Sirius. Mundungus could smash it to powder for all Tonks cared. But the incident had distracted her; she’d fallen into a fog of memory while on duty. Thank Merlin for Hagrid. How could she live with a second death on her conscience? 

Autumn became Winter. The three months since Remus left became four. Tonks patrolled, slept, patrolled, slept. She only wrote to Mad Eye: scratching out questions by flickering candlelight on duelling attack strategies; magical resilience tools; the best techniques for capture. Four months became five. She fell asleep to the sound of the wireless news every night and woke to it every morning. Then, impossibly, it became six months. And then it was time for a certain dinner that Tonks couldn’t avoid.

“Who is it?”

“That weirdo you gave birth to.” 

“You’re late, Nymphadora.” 

Tonks caught a quick glimpse of the warm, impeccable living room - the tree bedecked in sparkling silver and gold - and the sandalwood waft of her mum’s perfume before she kicked her parents’ front door shut again with her boot. 

“Ask me the security question, mum.” 

“When you were twelve years old, you spent the whole summer holiday with your face morphed in the style of…?”

“Bowie. Ziggy Stardust years, obviously. I’m shocked you remember.”

Inside, Tonks hovered on the mat. She and her mum faced each other, arms unmoving. Tonks could feel her mouth twitching against the grin she’d forced it into.

“Merry Christmas!” 

“Merry Christmas, Nymphadora. Even if we are celebrating it two days early.” 

“Blame you-know-who, mum. Hogsmeade won’t guard itself.” 

Locking herself into double shifts over Christmas was the only way Tonks could keep herself away from the Burrow. Remus’ threat may have been half a year old, but its manacles felt as tight as ever. She wanted the whole thing over as quickly as possible.

“Place looks great mum!” Tonks crossed the room. “And something smells ruddy fantastic.” 

“Let’s hope it tastes ruddy fantastic!” Her dad emerged from the steam-clouded kitchen in an apron splattered with gravy.

“Course it will! The messier the cook, the better the food - that’s my rule.” 

“Merry Christmas, love. Come here,” Ted spread his arms. “It’s bloomin’ nice to have the three of us together. You too, ‘Dromeda - get over here.” 

Tonks wrapped her arms around her dad’s ever-growing belly, squeezed her mum’s silver-ringed hand and felt that maybe the evening would be alright after all. Over dinner, she cleared her plate and held her own in a lively debate about the European Quidditch League’s latest controversy, but by the time the Christmas pudding was served, she started to notice something. There was so much of Sirius in her mum’s face. He was there in the high, aristocratic brow; the lush, dark eyelashes; the poker-straight nose. Andromeda caught her staring.

“Nymphadora. You’ve gone awfully quiet.” 

“Oh, I’m alright,” Tonks looked at the smudge of custard left in her bowl. “Bit tired from work, I guess.” 

“Have you booked an appointment at St Mungo’s yet?” 

“What? No. Why would I do that?” 

“You know very well why. I thought I made myself clear in my last letter.”

“There’s no point talking to the healers, mum. They can’t do anything about my morphing.”

“How can you possibly know that if you haven't spoken to them?”

“I just know, okay?” 

“You don't have to snap at me, Nymphadora.” 

“And you don't have to use _that name_ every single time you speak to me.”

“Stop snarling you two,” Ted broke in. “Dora, I know you don’t like being pestered but we’re worried about you. You’ve been able to morph ever since the day you were born. Something’s not right.” 

“It’s my sister’s curse. There’s some part of it still lingering in you, I’m certain of it. It’s the only explanation.”

“No, it’s not,” Tonks muttered.

“What on earth do you mean?”

Tonks tucked a feeble piece of hair behind her ear, but said nothing.

“Why are you behaving like this? You were always such an open book, but now…I simply can’t tell what is truth and what is evasion with you. We didn't raise you to be deceptive.” 

“I'm not trying to be deceptive, mum,” Tonks' eyes prickled and her throat started to ache. "I never meant to be deceptive before either, I swear.”

Andromeda looked down at her napkin, shutting herself up like a clam: cold to Tonks' hot. 

“We were sworn to strict secrecy in the Order but even if I had told you I knew you'd try to talk me out of it or even worse try to get involved too and put yourselves in even more danger than you already were with your psychotic sister on the loose and I couldn’t tell you about Sirius without first telling you about the Order and…”, Tonks took a breath, “you have to understand...I thought there was time…I thought…"

_I thought I was better at my job than I was. And because of that, Sirius isn’t here: making a toast, laughing with my dad, sitting next to his favourite cousin…_

"Your heart was in the right place, love," said Ted. "We know that, don't we 'Dromeda?"

A rare drip had formed in the dark corner of one of her mother's beautifully made-up eyes. She blotted it with a finger.

“I can’t forget that night in the hospital. I knew my sister was a monster, but for her to have done that to my daughter, to my _only child_ …” 

"I got better though, mum. The healers sorted me out. I’m alright now."

"Are you?”

"Yeah!" 

It wasn’t a convincing lie. Ted rested his cheek on his hand. Andromeda's expression clouded over again.

"Who was that man at the hospital?”

“What - er - which man? I don’t know,” said Tonks, far too quickly. 

"The man who told us what had happened to you. The Healers said he apparated into the reception with you in his arms.” 

Tonks’ fingers twisted at a loose splinter of wood on the underside of the table.

"Just someone from the Order.”

"He was absolutely distraught."

“Well…”, she swallowed, “he went to school with Sirius…”

"It was _you_ he was distraught about. Anyone could see that."

The splinter snapped off and embedded itself in Tonks’ finger. How could she even begin to explain Remus to them? And how could she cope if he turned out to be right about their reaction?

“He’d just seen his best friend get murdered,” her voice was harsh now. “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m sorry about hiding stuff, okay? That’s all there is. What else can I say?”

“I’d find all your apologies easier to accept if I didn’t think you were still keeping secrets.”

Tonks felt heat rising at the nape of her neck.

“I’m an adult, mum! You don’t get to know everything about me. Don’t you think I feel bad enough without being guilt-tripped every time I see you?”

“I’m not trying to ‘guilt-trip’ you, Nymphadora. I’m trying to understand why you barely write to us; why everything you say is obfuscation; why you’re not taking care of yourself properly. When was the last time you even washed that jumper?”

“That’s the main thing for you, isn't mum? I look rubbish. That's what _really_ freaks you out.”

“How dare you say that to me? You think I would care how you were dressed if the next time I was summoned to hospital it was to identify your body?”

_If the people I loved worried less about my death, my life would be a whole lot easier._

“Whether I do a bit of extra work for the Order or not, I'm still a dark wizard hunter. It’s never been an office job, mum.”

“I don’t want you to be murdered!" 

“I’m not going to get murdered!” 

Tonks flung a hand out on ‘get’ and it collided with the red wine. Andromeda caught the bottle in her hands with practised swiftness.

“Your bloody-minded optimism has always astounded me,” she said quietly. 

"She gets that from my side of the family,” said Ted, taking advantage of the cease in hostilities. “Look, you two - let’s stop this rowing. Dora, your mother and I only want you to be safe and happy. ‘Dromeda, we always knew Dora’s career would lead her into some danger.”

"No more secrets," said her mum. 

“No more secrets," Tonks agreed. 

Andromeda was silent but not satisfied. Tonks wished she could lean over and hug her - wine, custard and table decorations be damned. But the gap felt unbridgeable. Later, as Tonks sat up in her old single bed, surrounded by the paraphernalia of her teenage life - song lyrics scrawled over the walls, Orsino Thurston flipping his drumsticks on her ceiling, a fluffy stuffed snidget on her desk - there was a knock at the door. 

“Come in.” 

“Well,” her dad sat down on the end of her bed and slapped his knees. “Christmas isn’t Christmas without at least one family barney, now is it?” 

"I guess not."

He sighed.

“You and your mum think you’re chalk and cheese. God knows it was the same with my own mum: a 'blue blood', that's what she called Andromeda Black the first time she met her; thought she was too refined, too haughty - a ‘cold fish’! But it's not true. You and your mum have got much more in common than you might think. She gives you a hard time, but that’s only because she is a woman who loves fiercely. Just like you do."

Tonks couldn't reply. She felt both ancient and child-like all at once. Her dad watched her for a moment.

"The world out there’s got a lot more darkness in it than I ever could have imagined,” he said. “But I feel - and your mum does too under all that fretting - safer knowing that our side's got Dora Tonks fighting on it." 

Tonks leant forward and buried her face into the curly wool of her dad’s dressing gown.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“It’s alright, Dora love. Chin up.”

He gave her a chuck under it, like he always used to. After saying goodnight, he paused at the door. 

“Will you promise me one thing?" 

“Sure.”

“That when you're ready…" he paused. "You'll tell us. Whatever it is."

“I promise,” Tonks whispered, full of her own fierce love. 

——-

"Knew I'd drag you to the pub eventually!"

Tonks regretted finally saying yes to the Three Broomsticks as soon as the steamy cloud of mulled wine-smell hit her. She’d hoped the pub would be quiet on Christmas Day, but apparently it was one of the busiest nights of the year: there were roaring sing-songs from the villagers, nutcrackers eagerly chomping by the fire, even a few fairies, giggling and skipping amongst the holly that lined the ceiling rafters. Rosmerta, in green robes with a sweeping fur-trimmed neckline and mistletoe perched in her blond ringlets, pulled pints of her Christmas ale. Tonks removed her coat and woollen warms before sitting down in a red velvet armchair beside Finlay.

“Bringing me here when we’re on call’s just cruel. How’s a person supposed to cope with the Christmas vomit-fest without a drink?”

“It’s your lucky night, Tonks. I’ve got these.”

Finlay pulled two tiny somethings out of his robe pocket. Tonks raised her eyebrows.

“Cement-flavoured Bertie Botts?”

“Sober-up Sweeties! I bought them off those ginger fellas on Diagon Alley.”

Tonks took one and squinted at it, identifying the three intertwined Ws that marked a Fred and George original.

"Knowing those two, these things probably work."

"You know them? The ginger fellas?"

“Nah, just a figure of speech. They’ve got a good rep.”

She pocketed a pebble-sized sweet, feeling a guilty relief. Boredom must have sent Finlay round the twist - why else invite his most annoying colleague out to the pub? But the longer Tonks sat there, the music loud enough to soften the awkward silences, it didn’t feel so bad. The more she drank, the more normal she felt. She liked the blur of sound, the heat of bodies as she squeezed through to the bar when it was her round. 

"Two pints of your Murtlap Malty, ta Rosmerta."

"I was wondering when you'd stop by. It's good to see you in here. Tonks, isn't it? Yes, I remember you - though you haven’t really been looking yourself lately. I hope you don’t mind me saying.”

“I mind," said Tonks, her stubby nails drumming on the bar. "But least you say it to my face. It's a refreshing change from getting gawked at."

Rosmerta observed Tonks closely, her cheeks rosy. 

“I always liked that pink hair of yours. And all those other bright colours you used to experiment with. You used to go for all sorts, didn't you? Shaved bits…spiky bits…curly bits…Oh, I’d love to be able to change my appearance like that. I wouldn’t go for the punk-y look myself, but each to her own! More into the natural look these days are you?” 

“So it would seem. Just those pints Rosmerta, if you would. Cheers.” 

Rosmerta pulled the tap slowly. Deliberately slowly, Tonks thought.

“What’s eating you, sweetheart? You seem a bit blue,” she cocked her head and lowered her voice in a stage whisper, “boy trouble is it?” 

Tonks slapped coins onto the top of the bar with her palm. 

“Nope."

"Girl trouble?"

"I'm trouble-free, me."

“Mmm,” Rosmerta held the pints but didn’t put them down. “If you say so. I can always tell who's been unlucky in love - I have a sense of these things! It’s something you develop as a bar keep. I’ve seen it all in this pub. You wouldn’t believe half the stories I could tell about all you old students!”

Chuckling, she handed over the pints. Tonks slurped the bubbly brown head off one and turned, eager to escape. But then something struck her. She set the drinks down again and leant forward on the bar. Rosmerta had started making gin and tonics - her wand bouncing as it peeled a lime into slices.

“You must remember Sirius then? Sirius Black?” 

Rosmerta tossed her curls and laughed.

"Do I remember Sirius Black? That boy was unforgettable."

“Yeah,” Tonks agreed, feeling what might have been the first real smile in weeks spread over her face. “Any stories about him?” 

“Oh my, where to begin…Well, I remember him trying to sweet talk me into serving him a firewhisky at the ripe old age of fourteen! He and that James Potter used to sit by the fireplace and shape little balls of flames into lions. They’d send them lolloping around the bar to torment the Slytherins - singeing the ends of their robes and the like! Oh, it was funny." 

Rosmerta handed some silver sickles of change to the man she was serving. 

“What else?” 

“Let me think…Sirius Black…Ah, you’ll like this one: he helped me throw out a couple of dodgy blokes spouting anti-muggleborn rubbish in the pub once. Times were tense back then, just like they are now - you never knew when a quiet afternoon might erupt into chaos! Nothing seemed to scare that boy,” Rosmerta's voice dropped, as if telling a ghost story, “it’s so tragic, what happened to him. Behind bars for all those years, the whole world convinced he was a mass-murderer - and he was innocent all along! Killed before he could clear his name."

Tonks’ smile died. Rosmerta began polishing a tankard.

"I didn't know you two knew each other?”

“He, um, he was my second cousin. Something removed. Only wizarding family I had 'cept for mum and dad." 

“That can’t be right, can it?" Rosmerta wrinkled her brow. "Your mum was born a Black! Now there's a big family." 

“I don’t count Death Eaters. Or their platinum blond offspring."

Rosmerta dropped her cloth. A thin line appeared between her eyebrows. She stared past Tonks, into the middle distance. 

"You alright?"

The question seemed to jerk her back to life and Rosmerta continued talking as if nothing had happened. 

“Sirius was a bit of a punk too, you know. He used to wear this leather biker jacket around Hogsmeade instead of his school robes. He turned a lot of heads, believe you me! Ever such a good looking lad.” 

“I bet.” 

Rosmerta's eyes sparkled. 

“Your type I'd have thought?" 

Tonks laugh-coughed and cold ale trickled down her front.

“Not every offshoot of the Sacred Twenty-Eight is into incest you know!” 

"Oh, bosh,” said Rosmerta, waving her hand. “Your’s mum cousin hardly counts as related!”

Tonks laughed properly, feeling it in her belly.

“He was a darling though. I don’t know how I could ever have believed he’d gone to the bad. Oh, that generation suffered terribly. Terribly.”

_Don't ask, you dolt_ , Tonks chided herself. _It won't help._ But she asked anyway.

“If you knew Sirius, you um…you must have known Remus Lupin too?”

“Oh, well yes,” said Rosmerta, her eyebrows arching and her voice lilting in intrigue. “He was part of that set. Thick as thieves, they were. Of course I hadn’t a clue what he _was_ back then. No one could possibly have guessed! He was always such a polite young man. Softly spoken. Didn't have the showiness of James Potter or the touch of arrogance Sirius Black had or…well, the less said about the fourth one the better! Remus Lupin was the _thinker_ of the group, you could say. Shows you just never can tell doesn’t it?”

Rosmerta pursed her lips. Tonks’ teeth clinked against the rim of her glass. She felt like biting right through it. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not prejudiced. If he walked into this pub right this moment, I’d serve him what he ordered, same as any other man. Much as I respect Dumbledore though, I do think it’s shocking he gave him that teaching post - anything could have happened! Just imagine! A werewolf teaching children - I’m all for equal rights, but that’s going too far - ” 

Tonks slammed the pints down. One toppled over and ale fizzed over the bar in a waterfall.

“Remus Lupin is worth a thousand of everyone in this wretched hole.”

Then she was out, sending the pub door flying in her wake. Her angry breath clouded around her and her exposed skin stung with cold as she stomped away through the dark streets, decrying the injustice of it, abhorring her own powerlessness. She felt like a hamster on a wheel. Remus had wanted her to be free and she was anything but. All she did was restrain herself: she couldn’t lose her job for cursing bar managers; she couldn’t antagonise the ministry by jumping on a chair and waxing lyrical about inequality to the entire pub; she couldn’t push Remus into danger by bursting into the Burrow, grabbing him by the front of his robes and -

_Thwack_. Tonks’ coccyx hit the icy cobbles.

"Ow…"

“Where d’you think you’re going?”

Finlay's face appeared, obscuring the night sky. He seized her arms and pulled her up.

“The hell out of that pub," she mumbled, brushing icy mud off a bruised elbow.

“Dressed like that?”

Finlay offloaded the woollen heap of her coat, jumper, scarf and hat into Tonks’ arms.

"What just happened?”

"Nothing,” she said, popping her head out of her jumper and jamming on her hat.

“Really? Cause you’ve got a face like a slapped arse and you owe about five ol' fellas back there a new pint.”

Tonks began walking. 

“Oh give over, Tonks! Would it kill you to smile?" 

She whirled around. “I don’t owe you or anyone back there anything.”

Finlay was nonplussed.

“What is going on with you? Is this all because of what happened in the Department of Mysteries last summer? I do know a bit about that, you know."

_You know nothing._

"I had a really weird year. And now I'm stuck here. End of story.”

“You were doing secret work for Dumbledore. We all know.”

Tonks looked back at him, her eyes like stone. But Finlay looked more embarrassed than accusatory.

“Look, the truth is…I feel a bit of a mug. I believed Fudge and sat on my arse all year whilst you were actually fighting Death Eaters. And I agree with you about the necklace thing, by the way. We messed up. The Auror department hasn’t exactly covered itself in glory recently.”

“If you agreed with me then why didn’t you say anything during the debrief? You just sat there.”

“Because I don’t want to be a Junior Auror my whole life! Things aren’t like they were during Mad Eye’s heyday. To get ahead, you have to toe the line not take the lead! You were ambitious too once." 

“I still am, but...not for my own sake. I don’t care who I offend. All I want to do is get you-know-who and every bit of scum that supports him either behind bars or six feet under.”

“I want the same thing! But if I can do that and get a nice promotion in the process I will. There’s a middle ground."

“No,” Tonks shook her head. “There’s no middle ground. You’re either giving everything to the fight or you’re not.”

“You're acting like we're on different sides! We used to be mates!"

“We still are,” she muttered automatically, wishing herself alone with her wireless. 

“I hope so,” he said quietly, looking a little appeased. “Because I’m here if you want to talk about stuff."

_If I can’t talk to my own parents, I can’t talk to you._

“You're always going off on your own. It’s not healthy.”

“I don’t really care about what’s healthy.” 

“That’s a stupid thing to say,” he said, stepping closer. “Come here. Truce?”

She didn't want to hug him, but it happened anyway. It was warm in his arms. The street was quiet. She hadn't been held like this for a long time.

“I’m here if you want to talk,” he said again.

His voice was low. She could smell alcohol on him. He rubbed her back, slowly. That’s when Tonks realized just how bored Finlay really was; the real reason he was so eager to invite his most annoying colleague out to the pub. She could take him back to her attic, if she wanted to. Would it be a comfort to bare her body to him; take him inside her and try, hurriedly, distractedly, to feel something? Tonks felt a desert coldness between her legs. The shape of the body pressing against hers was all wrong. The smell of him was all wrong. Every inch of her skin, every ounce of her blood, every little spark of impulse in her brain, was faithful to the ghost of a man who swore he’d never touch her again. It would be Remus or it would be nothing. She drew back out of the embrace, softly pushing Finlay’s chest. She wrapped her coat tight around herself, masking an involuntary shudder.

"Try and cheer up a little, okay?” Finlay said, his voice cold with disappointment.

“Go back to the pub, Finlay," she said, walking backwards over the cobbles and melting into the darkness.

———

Back in her room, Tonks stared at the damp patches on her ceiling. Mildred was picking at something in the hearth, her peak making papery little noises.

"Mildred, stop it."

A letter must have arrived through the fire. Who did Tonks know that didn't own an owl? She twisted where she lay, looking at the fireplace sideways. There was a low, red glow from the embers in the hearth. Mildred clamped a square of paper in her beak before dropping it onto the tiles again. There was no envelope, so Tonks could see a little paragraph written in a tidy, slanted hand.

_No. It can't be._

She rolled off the bed, smacked the floor on her sore elbow and scrambled to pick up the letter. She knew even as she did so that it was foolish to hope; that there was no way; that it was impossible. It couldn’t be...he wouldn’t…but Tonks let out a noise somewhere between an elephant and a wildcat. Remus. Alive. Remus. Writing to her. She had to read the letter three times before her brain could unjumble the words.

_Tonks,_

_I hope that I’m not doing wrong by sending you this note. Molly tells me that you’ve been alone today. I wanted you to know that I’ll be leaving the Burrow at first light, so you’ll be free to join the Weasleys tomorrow for Boxing Day. I would never have come here if I’d known you’d be spending Christmas alone._

_Remus._

His self-control had broken. The words themselves meant nothing, but the fact that he’d written them meant everything. _Molly, you wonderful woman what did you say to him?_ Tonks summoned an ink pot, which immediately tipped and stained her fingers. She righted it and smoothed out a wad of parchment, trying not to smudge it with inky fingerprints. She seized a quill and touched its nib to the blank paper, feeling ill with adrenaline. Her head was a squall of wild entreaties, passionate declarations, torrents of abuse. _Don’t scare him away. This could be your only chance._ Tonks found the Sober-up Sweetie and crunched it up dryly between her teeth. The brain-clearing sensation was horrible, but helpful.

_Wotcher Remus. You're alive. That's fucking good news. Don't worry about Christmas, it's not important. I wouldn't kick you out of the Burrow and I'm working anyway. Are you there at the fireplace right now? Please tell me how you are._

Simple. Boring. Anticlimactic. But it might just work. Tonks shoved it into the fire, scorching three fingers. She waited, jiggling a knee and ripping at a fingernail until it bled. Was he still there?

_I'm fine. I hope you are too and that your posting in Hogsmeade is going well._

This time Tonks screamed. The reply was so quick it could only mean that he was right there: just beyond the flames, so close. Restraint was thrown to the wind.

_Please tell me everything that’s been happening to you. I miss you like hell. I miss you so much. Six fucking months._

_I should never have written to you. I’m sorry._

It was so him. She could practically hear his voice. It was so absolutely and utterly him that despite the way his words slashed her heart, Tonks laughed a little; laughed even as a tear fell and imprinted in the ash.

_You know I hate it when you apologise. Don't you dare say sorry for missing me - yeah, I know that's the real reason you're writing to me. I want to know if you're okay and if I can help you. Mostly I really really want to see you. Now._

He needed her. If he had crumbled enough to contact her, things must be bad. But she could take care of him, could love him so hard that he would forget where he’d been. If only he would come to her.

_I'm on call so I’m stuck - the Ministry will get notified if I leave Hogsmeade. But you can take the floo. It's just me here in my little attic room. I want to see you so badly._

She waited again. Every second that passed made it more likely that he would give in and come to her. He was struggling with himself. Tonks stared into the fire, eyes watering, seeing tricks in the blaze: a ripple of robes instead of a piece of kindling dislodging itself, a hand instead of a bright lick of flame. Any moment he would come. He would step out into the room with ash in his hair and doubt in his eyes, but she’d say ‘Wotcher Remus’ like nothing had gone wrong and he’d see the undimmed love in her face; he’d kiss the colour back into her hair. Tonks looked wildly around the room - in disarray, not ready for him at all - and then back to see a new note.

_I can't do that. You may hate my apologies, but that’s all I can offer you._

Tonks refused to let disappointment in: she held onto the tingle of anticipation. He was trying to resist, of course he was, but the important thing was that he was agonising over it. And Tonks wasn’t going to give in.

_This isn’t some kind of ambush. I’m not going to leap on you or scream at you or chain you to my bed. All you have to do is step through the fire. I just want to see you. I’m here waiting._

The wait this time was more painful than the last. 

_I stand by everything I said to you before I left. My mind is unchanged._

Tonks pounded the stone tiles with her fists. She didn’t want this stranger, she wanted the real Remus made of flesh and blood. She despised this letter-writing hypocrite. She wrote furiously now, her quill puncturing the parchment.

_You owe me a real conversation._

Tonks flung her head back. This time, the wait was torture. When nothing came, she ripped the parchment into strips and scrawled out a single sentence.

_You apparated out of my kitchen, but we weren’t done._

She chucked it into the fire, then wrote another.

_You’re in my head every day._

She kept scribbling, the shape of the letters erratic. She didn’t want to allow him any kind of gap in which he could leave her again. He wouldn’t want the Weasleys to see any of her messages: she knew he would stay by the fire as long as she kept writing.

_Remember the roof and the Scally Wizzbee and that day in the woods._

Her handwriting became wilder still.

_You’re not alone even though you might feel like you are._

Her hand was cramping from gripping the quill so hard and the feather was coming apart.

_I still love you. I won’t stop._

That one was almost illegible. Tonks rubbed her eyes, smearing ink across her cheekbone. She could convince him to come. She knew she could. Just one more message. She’d see him soon.

_It's Christmas. It’s not a night for fighting, so let’s just pause it all. No squabbles. Just us. Please come and see me._

_I won’t. This is my last. You have to forget me._

Tonks crumpled the letter in her fist, balled it up with the others and threw the tangle of paper like a projectile into the fire. It exploded into a mass of flying sparks. Mildred let out a cry and fled to the window. There was an acrid smell as the flyaway ends of Tonks’ hair crisped.

“I can’t! I can’t forget you!”

It would be Remus or it would be nothing. Tonks sat back, too dazed even to cry, feeling the nothingness swallowing her up. If she had any hope he would change his mind, it dimmed with the dying of the embers as the night deepened. Eventually the room went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading xx


	5. Rat Hunting

**Chapter 5: Rat Hunting**

Tonks’ hand-writing was truly terrible, Remus thought. He moved a finger slowly over each crooked slash that meant S; all of the inconsistent, wonky Gs; every I that could have been an L. There was a perfect whorl of navy blue in the corner of one note where Tonks had left an inky thumbprint. Remus touched his own thumb to it, holding the paper in just the same way she must have barely minutes before. Breathing wasn't easy because here Tonks was: alive, stubborn, intense as a hurricane. Not the Tonks of his imagination; not the saintly facsimile; not the blur of a remembered look; not the lonely fantasy, but the stormy, unpredictable, thumping-hearted real woman he adored. Remus leant forward and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyelids, letting the notes drop, seeing flying colours of phosphenes exploding in the blackness. He wanted the fire to take him to her, or else obliterate him. 

But if he succumbed, what could he possibly say to her? ‘Please forgive me’? She would utterly despise that. He’d rather say nothing: to only rest his forehead in the crook of her neck and listen to every word she threw at him, no matter how furious or vengeful, wanting only to fade away into her. But she didn’t want his cowardly silence: she wanted him to disavow his decision; she wanted him to no longer care about his condition, just as she claimed she didn’t; she wanted him to put her at risk of teeth and claw, and he never would. Tonks might think she deserved the truth, but the truth was ravenous. Once spoken, it would consume everything: it would destroy her life. It was Remus’ duty to lie.

_I don’t love you. I can’t._

Tonks’ ball of flaming parchment had burst from the hearth with the force of a slingshot and left one of his sleeves blackened and smoking, a shining burn on his wrist. He would keep the mark as a reminder: it would serve as a warning to him never to break again. It had been the _“I got the impression she was planning on spending Christmas alone, actually”_ over the carrots that had done it. In all his dreams of her, Tonks was never lonely. Remus looked down at the scattered notes, then scraped them together into a heap and used the poker to drive them deep into the blaze. But he couldn’t stop himself bidding them farewell: giving Tonks, though she couldn’t hear it, a tiny sliver of the reply she deserved.

“I won’t stop,” he whispered. “I won’t forget. But you should, my love. And you will.” 

The cruelty of his original desertion was almost equalled by what he had done tonight. If she didn’t hate him before, she surely did now. Six months of separation hadn’t been enough, but there would be another. And another to follow, if he lived that long. 

“Remus?”

He jumped. The poker clanged to the tiles. The shape of Molly Weasley was silhouetted in the doorway. 

“I forgot to give Errol his brandy-soaked bacon! What are you doing still sitting down here in the dark?”

“I, um…I’m sorry I startled you, Molly. I’m going up to bed now.”

Remus stood up, brushing ash from his robes and slipping the quill up his sleeve. 

“I’ll vanish this mess,” he said.

“I daresay this particular mess will require a little bit more than just a charm,” she said, not missing a thing. “I do hope you invited Tonks to join us tomorrow.” 

“I offered to leave so that she could come in my place, but,” he thought of the fireball, “she declined.” 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Of course she did. I don’t think that was quite the offer she had in mind! Someone ought to lock you two in a room together until all this ridiculousness is sorted out.”

“Molly…” 

Remus felt like a wretch. After all of Molly’s extraordinary kindnesses, and all the heartache she’d suffered from Percy’s visit, there was something he needed to say to her that she wouldn’t like. 

“I want to thank you for taking me in this Christmas. I appreciate it more than I can say. You and Arthur were under no obligation to house me and I’m sure I’ve caused you far too much inconvenience - ”

“Don’t be silly, it’s always a pleasure to have you. You needed a break from…well…you know…and I gather that you’d rather not disturb your father. Honestly, it’s nothing.”

Remus’ shame deepened. It was true he hadn’t wished to darken his father’s door by bringing the twin shadows of werewolf and Order member to his Christmas, not when Lyall Lupin had finally found a little bit of peace.

“It’s not nothing to me. But there’s something I must ask you…”

Molly pursed her lips as if she knew what was coming. 

“I know that you take Tonks’ part in all this, but - ”

“Now, now - I don’t take sides,” she wagged her finger, “I’m a mother of seven so I know a little something about mediation!”

Remus gave a thin smile which he hoped didn’t look as unconvinced as he was.

“Please don’t encourage her. Please don’t tell her there’s any hope.”

Molly gave him a flat, stern look. Remus couldn’t understand it. If Bill had brought a werewolf home for a bride instead of a half-veela, Molly would be justifiably horrified. What made he and Tonks any different?

“Nymphadora Tonks doesn’t listen to encouragement or discouragement. She’s as impenetrable as dragon hide! I’ve simply been a shoulder for her to cry on - and, believe you me, she’s needed one. You may think you’re being cruel to be kind, Remus - but isn’t this cold shoulder approach a little too cruel?”

Remus folded his arms and paced a few slow steps. The idea of Tonks crying over him twisted like a knife, but that wasn’t the _point_. Why couldn’t anyone understand?

“It would be of the utmost cruelty to subject Tonks to a life of social rejection and poverty and possible _infection_ because of a fleeting romantic attachment she will soon outgrow. She has her duty in this war and I have mine. Writing to her was foolish and reckless, a mistake I will not make again. I thought that…by now…”

“You thought that by now she’d be over you?” 

Remus didn’t reply. The shock of it still unbalanced him.

“Oh _Remus_. She’s as miserable now as she was back then! She’s not herself one bit,” Molly fiddled with her apron strings, “there’s something I think you should know…I don’t think Tonks would want me to tell you this, but - ”

“If Tonks wouldn’t wish me to know, then please don’t tell me,” Remus said quickly, halting his pacing. 

“But...”

“After all the hurt I’ve caused her, the least I can do is respect her wishes. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.” 

Molly shook her head slowly, the corners of her mouth downturned. He had disappointed her. They bid each other a quiet goodnight and he doused the fire. 

He left the Burrow at dawn, slipping a letter of thanks under Molly and Arthur’s door. Harry merited a letter too - given his encounter with the Minister for Magic, his Christmas had been far from restful - but Remus couldn’t. He was a disappointment three times over. He made his way down the deserted lane past the rolling, patchwork fields, until he had put enough distance between himself and the hodgepodge tower of the Weasley’s house: far enough that he could only vaguely make out the puffs of smoke from the five chimneys. Then he grew his beard, lengthened his hair and transfigured his clothes. It disturbed him that the costume felt almost like a comfort. Now he was Alban again. A spy. Somebody who didn’t belong in a family home. 

—————

At dusk, Jem shoved him awake. 

“Get all the presents you wanted?” He hissed in his ear.

Remus sat up, aching, and pulled up his sleeve to show the burn from Tonks’ fireball.

“Does this count as a present?” 

The glare faded from Jem’s young face.

“What happened?” 

“Enough to make me certain that I’m never going back.” 

Jem clapped him on the back. 

“Good news,” he said, pulling Remus’ arm to get him out of bed. “They can go fuck themselves.”

The yard was busy. When the camp leaders had seemed indifferent about the steady drip of werewolves out of the camp during December, Remus had been surprised. But now he understood the motivation behind their ambivalence: attempted reunions with former friends and family were doomed to failure and could only strengthen the pull of the camp. Sure enough, the numbers of the burgeoning army had swelled.

“You were gone longer than Cariad,” said Jem as they walked. “Three hours, she lasted. That bitch she’s been pining over called the capture squad. She only just got away.”

Cariad wandered, ghost-like, over to them. Remus held out an arm and she clung to him as the three of them walked.

“You’ll never find anywhere better than here!” Jem shouted suddenly, flinging his arms out in a manic gesture towards the smoking bonfire stacks; the stars emerging from the night deepening around them.

“It’s good to be back,” said Remus, staring straight ahead.

“Course it fucking is! And we’ve got to pull together, no more sneaking off, ‘cause we’re really under attack now.”

Remus stopped. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Something went down while you were gone,” said Jem. “I dunno what, but the leaders have been freaking out.”

“Freaking out how?”

“They’ve been all jumpy, sort of nervous-looking. My guess is Greyback’s not happy about something.”

“Do you think the Ministry’s found out where we are?” Asked Cariad.

“If they had, we’d all be in Azkaban right now,” said Remus. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s nothing like that.” 

He kept his face impassive, unworried, but he knew this could mean a reckoning. Mere days before he’d left for the Burrow, he’d slipped intelligence to Dumbledore about a planned attack on a Diagon Alley apothecary to steal hundreds of galleon’s worth of Wolfsbane ingredients. If Greyback traced the leak back to the camp…

“Alban, aren’t you meant to be cooking?” Said Cariad, letting go of his arm.

He was. Remus left Alban’s two friends in the yard and headed for the huts. As he walked, the wand concealed beneath his skin and the extendable ears curled around his ankle bone felt heavier than before.

——————-

Silver’s nightly oratories began focusing on ‘pack loyalty’; on ‘the inviolable bond of the moon’; and, of course, that any ‘ignoble, non-wolfish’ behaviours be swiftly reported. Remus cheered with the others as the punishment for betrayal was declared and wondered whether such a death would hurt more or less than transformation. Less, he concluded. Small mercies. Every room was searched and everyone was subjected to random searches: Remus had to resort to swallowing the extendable ears. It hadn’t been easy to summon them back through his stomach lining and the muscles of his abdomen whilst the rest of Section Eight had slept, but the fiddly operation had been worth it, because it wasn’t long until he needed them again.

As Dom and Mara (he had been true to his word about bringing her into the kitchens) readied the long tables outside, Remus listened through the wall: the muggleborn Head of the Department of Magical Transportation’s eight year old twin daughters; January’s full moon; Greyback. Remus knew more trouble would come after this new leak, but - though he still obeyed his ancient habit of looking away before the silver cloud took its wolf form - he felt no fear when he sent his patronus to Dumbledore. And in the final seconds before his transformation that month - though he screamed and wept with his face pressed into the damp grass - he took courage from thinking of the two children safe in their beds, never to suffer what he, and all those contorting around him, suffered.

The trouble came quickly. 

“Get off me! Don’t fucking touch me!”

It was Mara: Rafe from Section Twelve had her arms in a lock, whilst Lees from Section Three twisted a fistful of her hair. 

“Say it again,” said Lees, nose inches away from her face as Mara squirmed, trying to stomp on Rafe’s toes. “You don’t like the way we do things around here, do you?” 

“Fuck off!”

A crack as Lees struck her cheek. Remus began running. 

“Leave her alone.” 

He pushed between Mara and her assailants, dragging her out of their clutches. 

“We need to be united, remember?” He said to them, panting. “We can’t turn on each other.”

Lees spat on the ground. 

“There’s a rat in the camp. Everyone’s saying it. We reckon it’s this one.” 

“Maybe you’re both rats,” said Rafe, squaring up to Remus. “What do you say to that?” 

“Don’t call me a rat.” 

“I’ll call you what I want,” said Rafe.

He shoved Remus hard, sending him stumbling backwards. Before he could decide how to respond, Jem appeared.

“Alban’s alright. He’s with me.” 

Rafe stared at Jem, the fervent favourite of the leaders; the impassioned defender of every camp doctrine, and nodded. He and Lees glared at Remus once more, but shuffled off. Remus looked around for Mara, but she had disappeared. 

“You need to learn to fight, man,” said Jem.

“I know how to fight,” said Remus, his heart still racing. 

“Like fuck you do! That guy would have ground your face into the dirt if it wasn’t for me.” 

“I’ve been fighting my whole life.”

“I’m talking about fighting with your fists not with a little stick! If you know how to hurt people, they can’t hurt you. You’ve gotta be respected. _Like a wolf_.”

Jem raised a curled fist, the sinews in his wrist as tight as pulled strings. 

“I’ll teach you.” 

What Remus thought was how very young Jem was, hardly older than Harry, and how it was he who deserved to be taught; protected; taken as far away from here as possible, but what he said was, “Alright.” 

———————-

On the first dusk of February, Remus walked across the yard towards the kitchens as he always did. But tonight, the moonlight landed on the white-blond hair of Silver. She approached him across the grass and he nodded to her in greeting.

“Do you know what it will be this month?” She said, stopping before him.

“What will it be?” He replied, as mildly as he could manage. 

“The Snow Moon,” she said, pointing up to the sky with a dagger-like nail. “The moon that shone the night I became what I am.” 

Remus tried not to wince as he looked up at it: gibbous, cratered, jarringly bright.

“A clear sky at night is a wonderful thing. It’s a shame you never mastered your fear of it.”

She stepped around him. Remus renewed his slow pace and didn’t look back over his shoulder: he knew if he did he would meet those wanly blue, black-rimmed eyes that made him shudder. Mara and Dom were both at their stations early, knocking back cups of Dark Side. Mara handed one to Remus and he sipped it slowly: he didn’t like how its liquid surface shone when the light hit it, reminding him of Silver and the Snow Moon. The moon of his own infection.

“I’m sick of hearing about fucking Sophie!” Cried Jem, later that night. “I told you, you’ve got to make her like us. You heard Turnskin tonight - Greyback hardly even feels the pain now because he’s turned so many!”

Jem was making Remus’ head pound. He wished he would stop talking. He wished he never had to listen to another speech of putrid lies ever again.

“No…I couldn’t…I _couldn’t_. It would be awful, wrong. And she’d only hate me more than ever!” Said Cariad. 

“It’s far more likely that you’d kill her than turn her,” said Remus, looking down into the same cup of Dark Side he’d been nursing since the night began. “I'm sorry Cariad, but you have to learn to forget - ” 

“If you could turn one person….who would it be?” To Remus’ displeasure, Lees had sat with them that evening, and she had little patience for romantic longings.

“Only one?” Rafe chuckled in a way that made the hairs on Remus’ arms stand on end.

“Minister for Magic! Whatshisname….Fudge!” 

“Fudge isn’t the Minister anymore, idiot,” said Jem. “Alban, what about you?” 

But something was happening. Remus put his half-empty cup down on the table and stared: none of the camp leaders were at their table and there was a commotion coming from the tunnels. He heard shouting and the rumble of hurried feet. The rest of the camp began noticing too and some started to stand up in confusion. There was a loaded tension in the air, like water rising to a simmer. Then there was the stomp of Silver’s boots on wood as she leapt up onto the bench.

"The spy!”

Time slowed. Her yell hit Remus in the chest. His hand moved down to his leg, he braced himself.

“The traitor in our midst has proven her guilt by fleeing! This coward, this _insect_ , who threatens our very existence - what are you going to do to her?” 

Wildly, Remus looked around through the chaos. The vows and threats (“Tear her apart!”, “Hunt her down!”, “Kill the bitch!”) were deafening. He knew before he’d even checked every twisted, furious face at the tables that Mara was gone.

“Werewolves! The forest!” 

A crash as benches turned over and the camp leapt to its feet. Jem tore off at astonishing speed after Silver and the others. There was a thundering of feet as the camp headed for the woods. Remus sprinted, gritting his teeth, overtaking everyone he could.

“Alban, wait!” Cariad was trying to grab his sleeve, “what’s happening? What are they going to do to her? Wait for me - ”

But Remus couldn’t wait. Cold wind was rushing in his hair and adrenaline was like a storm in his veins. He had to find Mara before the mob did. There was a ripple in the air as he passed through the camp’s barrier. He plunged into the forest, jumping over roots, dodging boughs and trunks, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the wild figures leaping between the trees all around him. Some were punch-drunk, whooping and jeering, but others were silent, with death on their minds. When he reached a hollow, Remus crouched with his back against the earth. There was no time for the difficult act of wandlessly numbing flesh, so he winced as the wand squeezed out from his thigh into his waiting fingers. He healed the wound and then closed his eyes to think: his wand, though slippery with blood, imbued him with the controlled calm he needed.

He cloaked the hollow in a disillusionment bubble and drew a square in the air with his wand. He visualized the vast area of the forest, then whispered a long incantation, outlining the square all the while. Golden, moving dots appeared, some clumped together, some bobbing erratically, others in purposeful trajectories. There was one, solitary, and near the edge of the map. He pressed his wand to it, “ _identitatem revelare_ ”, and a face flashed up in his mind’s eye: it was her. He leapt to his feet. If he was swift enough, he could catch her. 

As his wand point led him closer, the noise of the other pursuers grew more faint. Remus muffled his tread and finally saw her, crouching in the darkness beneath a tangle of bracken. He cast another disillusionment bubble, this one with a silencing charm added, and she looked up.

“NO!” She scrambled to her feet, half-falling.

“It’s okay! I’m not going to hurt you!” 

But she began to run and Remus had to seize hold of her arm to stop her from leaving the safety of the bubble. Her nails drew blood from his forearm and she punched him in the stomach. 

“It’s okay,” he wheezed, not letting go, unwilling to use magic on her. “I’m going to help you.” 

She froze, a flash of hope replacing the terror in her eyes for just a second.

“I’m not a spy,” she said. “I swear I’m not. I just had to get out. You have to believe me.”   


“I believe you."

That was when she saw his wand. Her mouth became a circle of horror and she tried to bolt again, but Remus blocked her path; hardening the bubble into an invisible wall. Mara clawed at it, before turning back to face him. Remus didn’t think anyone had ever looked at him with so much hatred.

"You," she choked out. “You work for the Ministry.” 

“I don’t work for the ministry,” he said, raising his hands, his wand tip pointed to the sky. 

She spat at him. 

“You’re the rat! You’re the traitor! You're the reason they're hunting me!" 

“I’m a traitor to the camp, that’s true. But I don’t work for the Ministry and I never have.” 

There was a loud rustle of vegetation and three werewolves streaked past them. Mara cringed and covered her head, sinking to the floor.

"They can't see or hear us," said Remus, crouching beside her. “We’re safe. For now.” 

"What are you going to do to me?” She looked at him from between the dirty strands of her black hair. “I'll never work for you, _never_ , so you might as well kill me."

"I don't want anything from you. I'm going to help you escape. I work for a group who are on our side, not Greyback’s.”

“No one’s on my side. No one gives a shit about me.” 

  
“I know people who will help you.” 

She stared at him like he was raving. But more voices were gathering in the distance and the bubble wasn’t perfect; it couldn’t shield them forever.

"We don't have much time. I need to get you out _now_. I can apparate you far away from here and into a safe house. My friends can smuggle you out of the country - to live with werewolves who don’t think like Greyback.” 

He offered her his hand, but she recoiled, falling back into the leaves. 

“Either trust me or they tear us both apart.” 

She hesitated for a moment, then locked her fingers into his. He pulled her up to standing, but she wobbled: her knees weak all of a sudden. When he steadied her, he felt cold sweat drenching her jumper.

“What if it’s too late?” She said.

“It’s not. Here we go. Hold on to me.” 

Her grip was weak. Mara’s fierceness had vanished, but Remus had strength enough to side-along apparate her. When they emerged, it was into a warm cellar. The floor was lined with hay, candles burned along windowless walls and there was a sharp smell of goat in the air. Mara was limp now. Remus had to ease her down onto the hay. 

"Aberforth!" He called, throat cracking. 

Mara’s teeth were chattering. A bead of sweat dripped from above her ear down her face. 

"What is it?” Remus asked her. “What’s wrong?” 

She leant to the side and vomited sticky, purplish black onto the floor.

"Aberforth!”

Remus sent sparks fizzing up the stairs. He had to return to the camp before anyone noticed he was gone. He felt Mara’s neck: it was burning and her pulse was erratic.

"They've killed me," she said. "You got me out but they...they still…"

Aberforth came clattering down the stairs. He was wearing a threadbare dressing gown which flapped around the bleating trio of goats hoofing along around his legs.

“She needs help,” Remus said to him.

He tried to stand, but Mara seized his sleeve.

“They’ll kill you next! Don’t go back!”

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he told her. “You’ll be looked after here.”

With one final, desperate look at Aberforth, who nodded grimly, Remus snatched his sleeve back and apparated. The cold of the forest smacked him in the face and he immediately began to shiver. His headache was back. He breathed deeply, trying to steady himself, allowing himself to feel some relief: Mara got out, none of his campmates turned into murderers, no one saw him apparating. She was going to be okay. Wasn’t she? 

The _crick_ of a twig snapping. Remus only just had time to slip his wand up his sleeve. 

"Any sign of her?"

It was Adrian Mason. The only werewolf in the camp who had met Remus before he wore the name Alban. Remus quickly looked away, scanning the trees, which blurred before his eyes.

“No. Nothing."

“I could have sworn I heard someone disapparate.” 

“Not possible. No one here has a wand.” 

“Yeah. True. When d'you reckon they'll let us give up?"

Remus tried to chuckle, but it came out as a short huff of breath instead. He badly wanted to lie down. 

“My name’s Adrian. Adrian Mason - though I guess it’s first names only here. Actually…have we met before?”

“I don’t think so," Remus said, something like cold water sloshing in his stomach.

"Are you sure? There's just something about you…I can’t place it…” Mason’s voice dropped an octave, “wait…I know…it’s you - you were there in my ward at St Mungo’s when I got bit. You came to my house, you…”

Remus slipped his wand down his sleeve into his hand. 

"You tried to convince me not to come here,” Mason began to edge backwards, “you’re a spy like her…you’re a traitor,” his steps quickened, “I’m going to tell them.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

Mason opened his mouth to call out, but Remus jinxed his throat to bring the volume down to a whisper. At the sight of Remus’ wand, Mason began screaming but it was as quiet as wind on leaves. 

“Don’t kill me,” he rasped.

“I’m not going to kill you. What’s going to happen is - ”

“Please. Don’t kill me. _Please_. I - I have a child. And y-you won’t get away with it! They’ll wonder where I am, they’ll catch you!” 

Remus walked slowly closer.

"Get away from me!”

“I won't harm you, I swear. But I need you to do exactly as I say. Now turn around." 

Mason’s knees were knocking together in fear. He turned and Remus could see his shoulders shaking: he was weeping. Remus felt sick with himself for aiming his wand at a defenceless, begging man.

"On your knees. Please.” 

Mason sank down.

“Don’t kill me.”

"I'm not going to kill you. This won’t hurt at all.” 

Mason flinched as Remus placed one hand on his shoulder. 

“What are you going to do? Not my memory? No! No! Not that!” 

“I’m only going to take your memories of me. Everything else will remain.”

“No! No! It’s too difficult! You'll destroy all of it!”

Remus glanced around, feeling sweat wetting the hair at his forehead, but the surrounding forest was still. He tried to speak softly, kindly; make his hands gentle, even as they held another’s man head in place and pressed a wand to the fleshy part of the base of his skull. Mason was right: wiping everything was easy, precise memory modification required skill. 

"Everything's going to be alright," he said again, quiet as a prayer. “You can trust me. _Obliviate_.”

A surge of jumbled pictures rose up to meet him: some blurred, some sharp as a photograph. Those that were circling in Mason’s head at that moment jostled for attention - a blonde woman smiling beneath a white veil, a squalling baby wrinkled and smeared with blood - but he let them pass, safe and untouched. He searched only for himself and found the memory of his visit to Mason’s house - flawed, Remus with the beard he wore in the present day - and nixed it. And he struck off their St Mungo’s meeting too, smoothing away both he and Arthur, leaving the ward empty. Finally, he erased the whole three minutes that had just passed. Then the violation was over. Remus sent Mason into a light sleep and laid him gently forward onto his front. 

He took a moment before reviving him again. He felt so very tired. The veins at the back of his eyes were throbbing and his stomach felt strangely, bulgingly, full. But he could hear movement in the trees, calls and shouts, so he hid his wand - his fingers icy against the skin of his thigh - then touched Mason’s shoulder.

“You alright there?”

“Wh-what happened?” 

“I think you tripped over a tree root and bumped your head. You were out cold when I found you."

“Embarrassing,” Mason mumbled, blinking rapidly, and staggered to his feet. “Don’t tell anyone that, will you?”

The walk back to camp felt like a dream of wading through water. Mason was chatting to him, but it was all Remus could do to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. He tripped more than once and Mason had to haul him along so they could make it to the edge of the forest. 

"You look really weird, mate. Are you ill or something?" 

The camp lay before them. The smoke from the bonfire was twisting into snake-like, monstrous shapes; the horizon beyond it wobbling and unsteady. 

"I'll get the -"

Remus didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, because for some reason he was face-down in the frosted leaves. _What's happening to me?_ His stomach muscles cramped and hot expulsions rocketed up his throat and down his chin; goosebumps burnt across his skin and his joints creaked, useless and weak, when he tried to move. The next thing he knew, he was being turned over and dragged, then hoisted up into the air where he floated, like a coffin being carried down an aisle. He wriggled, confused, but was only gripped tighter. From upside down, he saw a distant figure prostrate on the ground - another who had fallen or, uncannily, himself? Now he was rolling in thin sheets, so he must be in Section Eight’s room. Or was it hay that covered him, the hay of the Hog’s Head cellar? The voices around him were all wrong. 

  
“What’s the matter with him? Alban? Alban, tell us what’s happened to you!” 

There was a woman and a boy. They were sat on the floor and they were staring at him. Remus didn’t like it: their heads kept splitting into three. He fell down, below the bed, into the earth but was brought back again by an accusation, whispered furiously into his ear. 

_You’re the rat. You’re the rat. You’re the rat._

Panic seized him, choked him, sent his muscles into spasm: he’d been discovered, but he couldn’t move; and he didn’t know how to fight. But when he blinked, his eyelids crusty and slow, he saw that the swirling room was empty. The voice was inside his own head. 

_You’re the rat. You’re the rat. You’re the rat._

And he was. He was the rat. He curled up on the bed and his naked tail wrapped itself in loops around him: his mouth was crowded with teeth and his eyes were two protruding black orbs. The room wasn’t empty anymore. Someone was standing over him whilst Remus was cringing and begging on the floor. It was a man with filthy hair to his elbows and sunken eyes full of murder. At his shoulder was a second man - cold and distant, his brown hair flecked with grey - quiet but just as dangerous. Remus’ pulse felt like it was going to explode out of his neck. Under the translucent skin of his wrist, he could see capillaries of black-purple webbing. Everything was damp. Someone was crying: it was a child with a gaping, gushing wound in his side; it was a grown man, with thinning hair, pleading for mercy; it was a young woman in absolute disbelief, with hair pinker than a rose. The same pink was seeping under the door. Dawn. Remus closed his eyes but the pink light was only brighter there. It sharpened to a cold white, harsh and painful, pulling him somewhere: somewhere she wasn’t.

_I don't want to leave you_ , he thought as he started to fade away.


	6. Hell by a Prettier Name

**Chapter 6: Hell by a Prettier Name**

Tonks slept lightly, as she always did these days; only a thin membrane separating her nightmares from her waking imagination. As soon as she sensed the thing in her bedroom, she rocketed upright, her mousey hair wild, whacking her wrist on the bedside table as she reached for her wand. 

_A goat._ Tonks blinked up at it. _Why is there a goat?_

“Hog's Head cellar," it said in the throaty voice of Aberforth Dumbledore. "Now. We’ve got a situation.” 

Seconds later, she was legging it over the cobbles, clamping her robes tight across her chest to keep a braless wobble in check. The sun hadn't yet risen and frost stung her bare ankles. She darted down the narrow alley that led to the Hog’s Head back entrance and lifted the curled metal horns of its huge latch. Inside, the sweet cloying smell of forty years’ worth of brown ale, spiced pipe smoke and countless pickled old regulars hung in the air. One such regular was snoring on the bar, his rippling cheeks sending flakes of sawdust flying. Tonks aimed a light kick at his half-rotten barstool, but the man didn't stir. She let him be, but cast an imperturbable charm on the cellar door. 

  
Down in the bowels of the pub, Aberforth was kneeling by a woman laid out on a mass of hay. A goat was trying to nip at the stranger's ragged clothes - a black hoody and grey tracksuit - but Tonks pushed it away with a gentle palm to its beardy chin and dropped to the floor too. The woman’s wrist ended in a ridged mass of scars: Tonks’ heart started to race.

"Werewolf," Aberforth muttered. "Our man on the inside dropped her off but left before I could start asking questions. There's something wrong with her. You've got the training, what do you think?" 

Tonks cycled through the suite of healing charms she’d been taught - for shock, haemorrhage, concussion, internal bleeding - her wand sending out whirlpools of white light. But there was no improvement: the woman was still too weak to move, still cringing in pain. 

“Wotcher,” Tonks whispered. 

The woman flinched, but didn’t speak. She eyed Tonks’ wand warily. 

“It’s alright,” Tonks put it down. “You’re safe here. Can you tell me your name?” 

The woman swallowed and made a few wet, whispery sounds before Tonks could catch it. 

“Mara,” Tonks repeated. “Can you tell us what happened to you?”

“I ran…” she managed, her voice revealing her to be younger than Tonks had originally thought, “…they thought...it was me...the spy...but it's not me…Alban found me before they did...told me he was the one….took me here."

Alban. That name meant nothing and somehow everything to Tonks at once. Longing rose within her, but she forced herself to concentrate on her unexpected patient. In the flickering orange light, Tonks saw dilated pupils, remnants of dark purple vomit around the mouth and the webs of stained capillary veins beneath dehydrated skin. She mouthed “poison” at Aberforth and then shot a glance at the closest goat; its fluffy white stomach...

"Don't even think about it!" Aberforth growled, following her gaze. 

The goat skittered away on nervous hooves, as if it knew what she was thinking. The landlord rose and rootled in a cupboard, sending a couple of dusty bottles smashing to the floor before pulling out a smooth, marbled stone. 

"This belonged to Clement,” he said, gruffly, as he dropped it into Tonks’ waiting hand. “Over twenty when he died. A fine beast."

"Cheers, Clement."

Tonks tipped Mara's head back and eased the stone down, widening her gullet temporarily to help. Mara gagged and her teeth narrowly missed clamping down on Tonks’ retreating fingers. Her torso heaved once more then she lay back and curled up on her side, face turned to the floor.

"How do you feel now?"

But Mara only mumbled, hay sticking to her brow which was breaking out in fresh sweat. Aberforth knitted his severe eyebrows. Something wasn’t right. 

"Are you werewolves?" Mara gasped suddenly.

"No," said Tonks and Aberforth at once. 

"Why are you helping me?"

"That's what we do," Tonks whispered. 

"You're friends of Alban's…" 

“Yeah."

"Is he spying for…for…?"

She winced and clutched at her clothing.

"Where does it hurt?" Tonks asked urgently. "Tell me."

But Mara was fading. Whenever Tonks cast pain relief, the agony only seemed to spread elsewhere.

“They’ve…killed…me…"

"No ones killed you. You’re going to be alright, I promise," but Tonks leant across to Aberforth and added in an urgent whisper, “the poison's gone but not the damage. I’ve heard of poison being laced with a curse, but I’ve never seen it. This is beyond me - she needs a professional healer.”

"St Mungo's. Only thing for it."

"If she goes to St Mungo's, she'll get reported to the Ministry and if they figure out she came from an illegal camp it could be Azkaban! It's gotta be the Hospital Wing." 

"Don't be a fool, girl! No amount of concealment will get you past the gates. Your colleagues might be a gaggle of idiots, but I think they’d notice us smuggling a werewolf into the castle! And I'd wager she'd die in the attempt."

"But she knows too much! If the Ministry interrogates her…” 

"You better get used to making difficult choices."

Tonks looked through the dusty spectacles into the blue eyes that were so like his brother’s, hating what she knew she had to do. Tonks hooked an arm beneath Mara, supporting her weight.

“You’ll…warn Alban…?” 

“Yeah, of course,” said Tonks, looking down into the frightened eyes. “Don’t worry, now. Shh.”

“Th-thank you…”

Tonks couldn’t bear to reply. She cast _obliviate_ , wiping away sixty minutes of memory and sent her to sleep. A healing sleep, Tonks hoped, as she lifted the limp body - so light, so vulnerable - and Aberforth attached a slapdash piece of parchment (“poison, bezoar no change, dark magic?”) to the front of her jumper. They apparated from Hogsmeade to London in a squeeze of air, Tonks pressing her close. She stayed long enough only to lay Mara down on the floor.

  
\-----

Back in her attic, Tonks paced, eyes moving from the clock to the horizon and back again. Why had Mara been poisoned; why did Remus need to be warned; could it be that he didn’t know about the poison; how did it all fit together? The questions were slippery, the answers impossible. At seven, she donned her finest black Auror robes and buttoned them up to her throat. Managing a passable ironing charm, she smoothed out the folds in the black silk and even detangled her hair. She needed to look respectable if this was going to work. 

Her steps echoed around the cavernous central hall of the Ministry of Magic. She walked confidently, her Auror insignia glinting on her breast, at a fast enough clip to deter questioning. She’d almost reached the lifts when out spilled Rufus Scrimgeour - his tawny mane flecked with grey - flanked by Gawain Robards and Percy Weasley. The Minister for Magic stopped dead at the sight of her. 

“Morning, Minister." 

“Auror Tonks," he responded, glancing at his companions with uncharacteristic bewilderment. "We didn't expect you to be quite so swift. You received our message just now, I take it?"

Tonks' eyes slid from Scrimgeour to Percy Weasley - all glinting horn-rimmed glasses and inky fingers - and on to Gawain Robards. Her old stealth trainer; so stealthy he barely made a ripple in his new role as Head of the Auror Office. 

"Yeah…I got your message. I thought it best to hurry so, um, here I am."

Scrimgeour raised his eyebrows. “Well. No time like the present. Shall we?” 

Without waiting for a reply, he loped away from the lifts and towards the winding green marble staircase that encircled the south end of the hall. Tonks, Percy and Robards obediently followed in his wake: ascending higher and higher, the stairs’ enchantment ensuring their legs never tired. Tonks looked down at the bustling Ministry workers: the hall looked like a bee hive in the early morning. Scrimgeour's limp wasn't as pronounced as Mad Eye's but it still filled Tonks with a strange wistfulness: would she ever bear the scars of a real Auror? 

Tonks had never been inside the Minister for Magic's office before. On stepping in, she immediately felt a thrill of vertigo: a sudden, pure exhilaration that overtook her anxiety. Though they were two hundred feet below London they were somehow a thousand feet above it. The office was wrapped by a floor-to-ceiling window and the city splayed out in a panorama as far as the eye could see. White clouds drifted past the glass. Tonks could see for miles and she stared out hungrily: somewhere East amongst the jigsaw of roofs was her old flat; somewhere North of the sparkling grey river was Grimmauld Place.

_Oh Merlin, I miss this city._

“My letter was rather opaque, but perhaps you can guess why I summoned you.” 

Tonks snapped back to attention. Scrimgeour sat in a high-backed glass chair, resting his thick hands on its arms which were intricately blown into the shape of dragon heads. Robards and Percy stood behind him.

“I’m assuming it’s not for a spot of bird watching, Minister,” she said, taking a seat opposite him. 

Percy paused his frantic minute-taking and stiffened his jaw at this.

"Amusing as ever," Scrimgeour replied coldly. “I invited you here because it’s time for you to pick a side, Auror Tonks. The Ministry. Or Albus Dumbledore.” 

_Crikey._

“You are an Auror for the Ministry of Magic. We have trained you, paid you, entrusted you with a place in our most elite department. But the Ministry has not always enjoyed your undivided loyalty has it?"

Tonks' mild expression could rival Remus’ but inside she was bristling. Not a single genuine arrest and here was the country's leader worrying about his ego.

“My loyalty isn’t in doubt, Minister. It was Fudge I didn't respect, not you."

Scrimgeour pursed his lips slightly, pleased with this answer. 

"One can't exactly blame you for that."

Tonks leant forward, her stubby-nailed fingers pressing the desk. If this was her chance to leave purgatory, she had to make the most of it. 

"The Ministry is the only organisation capable of stopping you-know-who. That’s the only thing I care about. If you want me to prove myself, send me to where the action’s thickest. I’ll chuck everything I have at it.” 

Scrimgeour’s frown was undecipherable. 

“I have a very specific task in mind for you. An opportunity to contribute more to the war effort and prove you’re worth your salt as an Auror despite…everything.” 

Tonks felt his eyes on her unchangeable hair but she didn’t shrink or blush, only held his gaze. 

"I'll do whatever it takes.” 

“Good. But what you first need to understand is that fighting a war isn’t only about action. It can also be about public opinion. To this end, I had hoped that the Potter boy too would be willing to do whatever it took but that hope proved unfounded. It appears that he and Dumbledore are bent on non-cooperation," as Scrimgeour went on, Tonks felt her posture starting to slump at the realisation she would not be leaving Hogsmeade, "but they trust you, don't they? I want you to keep an eye on them - where they go, who they are speaking with, how often they meet with one another - and report back to me. You’ve been a Junior Auror for a while now, haven't you?"

She nodded. 

"Prove that you work for the ministry, the ministry _alone_ \- and we’ll see about a promotion.”

The words almost stuck in her throat, but Tonks forced them out, “I won’t let you down, Minister."

As she descended the staircase, a shiver travelled down her back: the conversation had made her feel grubby. Glancing back over her shoulder, she nipped into the nearest lift, selected the fourth floor, and held the golden rope as it rocketed to her original destination.

The Werewolf Capture Unit’s office smelt of damp cagoule and bad coffee. A huge map of Britain and Ireland covered the back wall. It was strewn with floating yellow dots, photographs - including an old mugshot of Greyback, baring his filed teeth - and more than a few large red question marks. The department head, Henry Golp, was young for his position. A favourite of Umbridge, he had smooth brown hair long enough to tuck behind his ears which were studded with silver. He was leaning back in his swivel chair, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled arms, talking to his assistant. 

“…can’t have a singing toad choir, can’t fly to the reception, can’t even make the goddamn candles float! If it was up to me, I’d make the whole thing wizards-only, but she’s insisting. Never marry a muggleborn, I’m telling you - the wedding planning alone is a bloody nightmare!” 

"Was a werewolf brought into St Mungo’s this morning?” 

“Er, we're in the middle of something if you don't mind,” said Golp, flashing his teeth at her.

“I didn’t realize your wedding was a matter of national security.”

Golp sighed and wheeled his chair to face her. 

“Aurors don’t usually _deign_ to visit our little department. How can we serve you today?” 

"Just answer the question."

“Yes. There was. A female, to be precise. According to the Healers, she was brought in at about five o’clock this morning. We don’t know who brought her or where she came from, but we do know that she was suffering from the aftereffects of poison. What’s it to you though? You’re supposed to be hunting dark wizards, not werewolves. This is our job and we’re almost onto something,” he indicated the map behind the desk. “We don’t need you lot claiming the glory as per usual.” 

“I’m on classified anti-war business, so get back in your box,” said Tonks, her patience for office politics at an all-time low. “Where’s the werewolf now?” 

He glared at her and shrugged. 

“Wherever St Mungo’s puts its unclaimed bodies. In the ground. In a jar. I dunno.”

“She…she died?” 

“'Bout ten minutes after we arrived. Didn’t manage to get much information out of her."

Tonks remembered how frail Mara had felt in her arms; how she’d promised her she was going to be alright; how she'd erased her final memories of kindness. She had hardly known her for more than ten minutes, this rake-thin woman whose life held horrors Tonks would never know, but Remus had wanted to protect her. 

"You interviewed her as she was dying?"

"Tried to. Every werewolf's a threat - we have to interrogate any of them that cross our path, Senior Under-Secretary’s orders,” he cocked his head to one side. “Bit soft for an Author aren't you?

The assistant laughed. Tonks wanted to grasp each by the hair and bring their faces crunching down onto the desk, as if the harsh stimulation of sudden violence could cleanse the dirty feeling spreading all over her. She thought of the gold sitting in her Gringotts vault, expanding each month with the salary she barely spent, from an organization that treated werewolves as less than human. She wanted to tip the whole lot into the Thames. She wanted to tip the whole _government_ into the Thames.

“How did she die?” Tonks demanded, barely recognising her own voice. “Poison, you said?"

“Not just any old poison, cursed poison. She had a bezoar apparently and Merlin knows the Healers tried their best, but werewolf’s bodies are weak. They’re pretty easy to kill when they’re in human form - not so easy when they’re in their real form, of course.”

“What information did you get out of her?"

"Nothing useful."

"I'll decide that.”

"It was mostly gibberish. She kept talking about a rat or…many rats? I didn’t get that part. The only thing I could figure out was that she was trying to escape. If you ask me, she’s part of the pack of werewolves Greyback controls,” he gestured over his shoulder at the map again, “so maybe it was a purge of some kind. Paranoia’s in their nature so it makes sense. It’s one of the Eight Observable Attributes of Werewolves.”

“The _what_?” 

Beside the map was a poster emblazoned with ‘Eight Observable Attributes of Werewolves’. Beneath two brains skewered with arrows was a list: impaired morality; excessive paranoia; sexual rapacity; low magical skill; violent predilections; meat and blood cravings; duplicitous tendencies; pack mentality.

“Wow. Who made up all this bollocks?”

“It’s not bollocks!” The assistant protested. “And it’s not made up either - it’s based on years of first-hand experience! Dolores Umbridge sponsored the research herself.”

“We've met a fair few werewolves in our time,” added Golp silkily. “How many werewolves have you met?"

_Until today, just the one. The one I love._

"Thought so," he continued. “I’ve met dozens. And I’ve observed these characteristics - or most of them anyway - in every single one. It’s why they can’t run their own society without killing each other. Poison’s an unusual one for them though, not that violent as murder goes - and as you can see ‘violent tendencies’ is - hey! Where are you going?”

Something had clicked in Tonks’ brain. What if poison had been chosen precisely because it was subtle? What if it hadn’t targeted an individual but a general group? What if Remus was in catastrophic danger right that second?

“A thank you would be nice!”

But Tonks had already fled the room.

\------

She couldn’t remember getting to Dumbledore’s office, but she had: bursting breathlessly in and garbling the morning’s events to him. Thankful that Dumbledore trusted her hunch and from his font of wisdom recommended a remedy, but filled with misgivings about who he’d sent her to, Tonks charged into the office of Severus Snape. Glass bottles wobbled in their cabinets as she entered. Snape regarded her with an air of bored unsurprise whilst a spiky-haired student elbow-deep in a foul-smelling gunge looked up hopefully.

“Clear off," said Tonks.

The girl grinned and began pulling off her gloves but Snape raised a slender, white finger. 

“I wasn’t aware that the Ministry of Magic had the power to dismiss my students, even those fine examples of magical valour, the Aurors,” he said. “Out, Edwards. Same time tomorrow.”

The girl fled the room with a look of relieved awe at Tonks.

“I need two things and I need them now - a bezoar and a potion that can stop dark magic spreading through the cells of the body.”

Snape didn’t move.

“Let me guess, Lupin has found himself in hot water and requires rescue. How very predictable.”

“A bezoar and a potion that can stop dark magic spreading through the cells of the body,” she recited again through gritted teeth, hiding her trembling hands in her pockets. “Dumbledore’s orders.”

Snape stood, slowly smoothed down his robes, and raised his hands. Cabinet doors began opening and bottles of various sizes and colours began floating onto the table in front of him. Flames erupted at the base of the grand cauldron that sat in the corner behind him.

“Can I do anything?”

“Only if you wish for this potion to be ineffective,” Snape muttered, massaging a wrinkled black pod with a pestle.

Tonks watched his every move. Snape’s fingers were deft, his incantations fluent, his measurements exacting, but she didn’t trust him. No one despised Remus more. Snape glanced at her through the purple steam rising from the mixture, as if well aware of what she was thinking and relishing her discomfort.

"A mere seven months and already failing."

“Not all spying involves daily feasts and tormenting children for fun.”

“Lupin has only ever cared about himself, anything else is posturing. He strives so keenly to make people believe he poses no threat, that he is nothing more than Dumbledore’s quietly loyal _pet_ , but the truth of his nature will always prevail in the end.”

Tonks ground her molars. She knew Snape was testing her; needling for a reaction.

“Perhaps I am too harsh,” he continued. “He cannot help being the creature he is. It is inevitable for a werewolf to be feeble,” he sprinkled black powder into the potion and it began to swirl, “and craven.”

Pacing was Tonks’ only way to stifle her temper, but during the third lap she bashed her hip against the desk.

“OW - fucking hell! Can you hurry up already?”

“We must wait for the surface of the potion to start shimmering. If we bottle it before it is ready, it will fail to save the werewolf’s life. A shame you don’t seem to have developed the restraint I would expect of an Auror. Patience has never been your strong suit, has it?”

“And humanity's never been yours."

Snape smiled his coldest smile.

“What an interesting choice of word. I hear Lupin hasn’t been seen much lately. Perhaps he is starting to prefer the company of his fellow beasts. It certainly says something about him. And you too, I daresay.”

Tonks stopped, her heels squeaking against the stone floor.

“You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?”

Snape’s eyes glittered.

“Well, you know who I think’s pathetic? The empty shell wallowing here in this dungeon who doesn’t have the faintest clue how it feels to actually be fucking _alive_. You might think it’s pathetic that my patronus has changed and that I got rejected and that I can’t morph anymore, but I think it’s pathetic that you’re so chock-full of spite that your heart’s probably turned to ash. At least I live for something! I will always, _always_ love Remus Lupin and I’ll never feel ashamed of that, _never_.”

The only sound in the office was the potion’s faint gurgle. Losing her temper had been like diving into deep water, but now Tonks had emerged and there was Snape in front of her: silent and apoplectic. She didn’t want to look at him, but she couldn’t stop herself. His face could have been carved from stone, except for his eyes: the black pools were ringed with more white than usual and they betrayed an impossible emotion; a strange, unending, _something_. Blood rushed to Tonks’ cheeks. Then the potion, like a liquid night sky, began to shimmer. Snape dropped his gaze, dipped a flute-shaped vial into the cauldron, stoppered it and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, taking a few awkward steps backward before turning and sprinting from the office.

“Agh, shit! And the bezoar!” She cried, turning at the door.

One came hurtling out of a drawer. It smacked her palms, but the pain was almost a relief: Snape despised her. She must have imagined whatever it was she’d seen in his eyes. It had been anger, plain and simple. It would never have been, _could_ never have been, sorrow.

——————-

“How do we know it will reach him in time? What if someone sees? What if he’s already…” Tonks had no nails left to chew, so she gnawed at the flesh at the side of her thumb. “…and it’s all been for nothing?” 

They were in Dumbledore's office. He had vanished the bezoar and the shimmering glass flute in a burst of phoenix fire. 

“I have something to show you that may ease your mind. Please, sit with me for a time.” 

Tonks hesitated. She just wanted to be shown this thing, whatever it was, and get out. It felt like an age since she’d been alone and there was something infuriatingly tranquil about the circular office: the peace of the sleeping portraits, the gentle ticking sound, the vague smell of wood sage. Dumbledore placed a long, mahogany box on the table between them and clicked it open. Inside were rows of tiny gold lights which flickered pulse-like beneath rows of cursive names. There was 'Nymphadora Tonks' beside 'Kingsley Shacklebolt' and a few rows above was 'Remus Lupin’. They each had a glowing light to their name. It was only when she saw the dark empty hole below 'Sirius Black' that she understood. 

“Remus is alive," said Tonks, sinking into the chair.

"And long may he remain so."

Her elbows hit the desk and she covered her face. Fawkes made a low noise, a single note as nostalgic as a smell, as evocative as a familiar song. She was flooded with memory, with a myriad of tiny things she’d forgotten: the tiny crinkle in the corner of his eyes when something coaxed a true smile from him; how he’d once kissed the nape of her neck as she slipped into sleep. She peered up at Dumbledore, blinking furiously. 

“Why is Remus being poisoned?” 

“We cannot know for certain that he has, though I am inclined to trust your instinct. It grieves me to agree with such a man as the Head of the Werewolf Capture Unit, but I too suspect a purge. The use of poison implies that the perpetrators were not certain enough in their suspicions for a public execution. Greyback is not a leader to cross and his commanders fear him above all else: they will have wanted to extinguish the threat as quickly as possible."

“So there must have been something that Remus and Mara - the woman who died - had in common, right? For them both to be targeted?” 

“Yes, that is likely to be the case. Perhaps this Mara saw the writing on the wall and decided to flee - too late, alas."

"But what's to stop them from trying to kill him again? We've got to get him out of there!"

“It is for Remus himself to decide what to do next. If he is clever - and we know, of course, that he is - he will divert blame onto she who fled." 

_A martyr for a cause she never even knew about_ , Tonks thought bitterly. 

"There must be some way I can help him. Please."

Dumbledore looked grave behind his half-moon spectacles, but unmoved. 

“I don't expect any of us to hear from Remus for some time. He must take care now if he is to be above suspicion. He must seek to retain his position in the camp or else more lives shall be lost."

“But - but - it’s not safe! He’s been half-rumbled already! Surely it’s only a matter of time until they catch him! He’s a terrible liar anyway, he - ”

“Trust him,” said Dumbledore, his interruption quiet but firm. “Remus has a lifetime of experience hiding his condition, he will be able to act this new role well enough. He still has possession of his wand and is under strict instructions to evacuate if there is an immediate threat to his life or if exposure is imminent. I have complete confidence in his judgment.”

“Really? ’Cause I’m not sure I do! Since when does Remus jump at the chance to save his own life? Sometimes I even think that he… that he…”

But that thought was too frightening to finish. Fawkes made the same low sound again. Tonks couldn't speak for a few minutes.

“I remember Remus as a very young man sitting where you are now," said Dumbledore, his tone softer. "When he was a student here, we would meet for a little talk every month. He suffered greatly in those days, as he does still, but what struck me most about Remus Lupin was not the bandages or the exhaustion, but his earnest passion for life. His ardour was quiet, but no less deeply felt for being so. He was a boy who loved learning - always talking about a new spell he’d learnt or a new book he'd picked up - and who adored discovery, fascinated by this castle which fed his inquiring mind. Above all, he loved his friends: his devotion to them was of a rare zeal. Remus Lupin has a deep, perhaps boundless, capacity for love.”

“Yeah,” Tonks’ voice wobbled. “It’s being loved that he struggles with.” 

“You may be right, but perhaps it will not always be so. It's a wonderful thing you're feeling, Tonks. You must remember that, even in the most painful moments. A noble, transformative thing.” 

_Dumbledore's figured it out. Of course he has._

“I used to think that,” she whispered. “I’d never fallen in love before and when it happened I thought it was the greatest thing ever. It made me feel so free. It made me feel like I was understood. But I was stupid. I was totally unprepared for what was coming. I mean, look what it’s done. I don’t recognise myself in the mirror anymore.” 

“That is only the exterior - "

“No! No, it’s not. I wish it was! I wish it was only my stupid hair that was different, but it’s everything. It’s something inside me. It’s hell,” said Tonks, hating every tear that escaped. “It’s hell feeling this way. People may have slapped a pretty name on the thing, but love is bloody breaking me.” 

“For whatever my opinion is worth, I don’t think there is anything in this world with the power to break you, Tonks. Not while there is still hope. Let that hope bind you.” 

Dumbledore was the reason Remus was gone. Who was he to lecture her on hope and patience? He was the one who’d sent Remus - once that trusting child with the boundless capacity for love - off to his probable death all because of the oh-so-convenient scar on his waist? But then Tonks thought of Mara’s lonely death, Greyback’s sharpened canine teeth, an army under the full moon running through city streets and for the first time allowed a new truth to filter in: even if Remus hadn’t left her, he would still have had to leave. They were soldiers, she and him. It was just that they were supposed to be lovers too.

"I should go," said Tonks, feeling like her brain had been scooped out. “You’ve probably got a to-do list the height of the astronomy tower and I’ve got patrol duty. Oh - you know what, I’ve just remembered, Scrimgeour wants me to spy on you and Harry. Only went and offered me a promotion for it. The pillock.”

"I hope you told him that you would?"

“Oh yeah. I told him everything he wanted to hear. I'll feed him some guff, keep him happy. ” 

"The Order is lucky to have you."

“Well, good. ’Cause I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

———

Tonks' shift started in two hours. She knew she should rest, but her feet had ideas of their own. As she drifted across the castle grounds, she saw daffodils sprouting: their heads wobbling in the breeze. Their cheerfulness irked her - didn’t they know that they were too early, that the cold would kill them? 

When Tonks stopped walking, she tipped her head up to the sky. The Whomping Willow loomed, its powerful trunk poised and its twisted branches curled like springs. She tested it, jumping a foot closer to its base and the tree shuddered, creaking as it prepared a strike. She backed away again. What had Remus and Sirius told her? A knot that had to be pressed? She began shooting bolts out of her wand. The willow fought back at first - its thick limbs flailing and whomping the ground so hard it quivered beneath Tonks’ boots - but then froze.

The damp wormy tunnel felt like a catacomb. Tonks had to bend double and she bumped her head more than once before she reached a trapdoor. She emerged into a kind of living room, the atmosphere dense with history. A chair lay on its side; its legs had been gouged away in chunks. An ancient sofa had been gutted and there was a gaping hole where its stuffing had once been. There was a dark stain on the floorboards. Tonks lifted her hand to the wall and traced her fingers down the claw marks that had torn the wallpaper into strips. Some of the boards covering the windows had fallen into disrepair and shafts of sunlight streamed in, heavy with dust motes. Tonks looked at her shadow on the wall and imagined it breaking, reshaping itself. She looked down at her hands and imagined them curling into claws, every follicle exploding with fur. 

  
Travelling upstairs she could almost hear the ghosts of capering pads, clattering hooves, scuttling paws, around her own lonely feet. There was a huge bed with drapes so dusty it was impossible to tell the original colour. It made a dry crushing sound as she sat her weight on it but, ignoring the fusty smell, she lay back on it. Did Remus ever lie here? She had no idea. If Tonks had thought that a visit to the Shrieking Shack would make her feel closer to him, she was coming to realise her naivety: the only thing here was old pain. She knew Remus would hate the thought of her being in this place, just as he seemed to hate the thought that she loved him. But he couldn't stop her. No one could. 

_I will see you again,_ she vowed. _And when I do…when I do…I’ll shake some sense into you and we’ll become ourselves again._

\----

When Tonks squeezed out from beneath the willow’s roots and ran across the grounds, head bent against the sudden snow squall, she didn't know she was being watched. Catching sight of her from a high window in the castle, the watcher felt a bitter sympathy blossom in his heart against his will. Because no matter what she said, he was no empty shell: he had once known how it felt to be alive. And he too was alone with his own hellish love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this chapter. It's been a strange and scary few days. Sending so much love to everyone affected by the crisis right now. When I was planning this story last year, I could never have imagined what the world would be facing today. I’m feeling thankful that even in this time of isolation, I still have reading and writing as a sanctuary. I'm going to try and post more frequently if I can. Please stay safe lovely readers. xxxx


	7. The Cold of the Ground

**Chapter 7: The Cold of the Ground**

The funeral was at sunset. The werewolves huddled together as a bracing wind sent bonfire smoke billowing through their ranks. Remus stared down into the hastily dug hole in the ground: at its depth lay a body shrouded in a dirty grey blanket. 

_I’ve seen too many burials._

Jem and Cariad stood on either side of him, supporting his weight. He was still too weak to stand unaided. There was an aura blurring part of his vision and his stomach fizzed and cramped, but his heart beat stubbornly on. He listened to the splatter of earth as the camp leaders filled the grave; smelt the damp of the mud as it covered Dom, his unspeaking former kitchen colleague. 

“It could have been you,” Cariad whispered, tightening her grip on his arm. 

“That bitch,” said Jem. "Wish I was there when they tore her apart.” 

“She was a traitor,” said Remus. “How could I not have realized it?” 

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Cariad. 

Remus kept plenty of blame aside for himself, but the sight of Silver - her white-blond hair shining just as it had when they’d met under the Snow Moon - and Turnskin, his mock-solemnity barely concealing a smirk, made anger sear within him. Everything had turned out very nicely for them. They’d been clever enough to trace the source of the information leaks to the kitchen, but had been too incompetent - or too afraid of their absent master, perhaps - to narrow it down. They’d simply elected to cull all three of them. Mara’s flight had played right into their hands; unwittingly implying herself to be the true spy and giving them the perfect scapegoat. The story was that the leaders had found Mara and ripped her apart - so thoroughly and conveniently that no body remained to prove it - but not before she’d confessed to poisoning the others. So neat. So repulsively neat. When the burial was complete, Silver began her speech: burying Dom again, this time in propaganda. Remus wished he could cover his ears. 

“Before Dom found acceptance here in our community, he was lost. Ever since the night he received the moon’s power, he had been searching for his fellows, desperate for freedom. Now in death, let him become a symbol for that freedom. A martyr for our cause, a beacon of vengeance. It grieves me that we had a traitor in our midst: a rotting ulcer who wanted to destroy us from within; a Ministry whore who would have killed every last one of us if she’d had the chance. Our beautiful life together is under threat and our enemies circle around us - we can no longer be idle or complacent. We must now look to one another and protect ourselves. Friends…we have sealed the camp boundaries,” Remus looked up sharply and a ripple passed over the crowd, but Silver only smiled, “it is our duty to keep you safe. You’re home now.” 

_So, the army is complete._

“But as we light these torches, let us not dwell on treachery. Let us remember everything we have to be thankful for: the moon above us; our glorious unity; the revenge that will one day be ours. Now - where is our survivor? Where is Alban?”

Jem seized Remus’ wrist and held it up. A cheer rose from the crowd. 

“You will light our first torch.”

She handed him a twisted bundle of sticks. When their eyes met, her gaze was cold. They were still watching him. His new status of surviving hero wouldn’t save him if he fell under suspicion again. He would have to prove himself, he knew. Remus dipped his torch into the flames of the bonfire then returned to the fold to pass it on. Gradually, the camp filled with floating fireballs as the torches were distributed; illuminating rows and rows of haggard faces. Silver led them in one of the many songs they’d been taught: supposedly a werewolf folk tune, it meant nothing to Remus - only noise. The final thing to ignite was the rough grey stone at the head of the grave. The fire spread in a bright circle across its face: a burning full moon. 

“The body rots but the spirit of the wolf lives on. The moon waxes full to infinity in death. Enjoy your freedom, friend. Until we join you.” 

Of all the awful things he had heard in this place, a vision of perpetual transformation was one of the very worst. Remus had to believe he would be free of his curse one day; that death at least would be an escape. 

_Why am I still alive?_

A strange bitter laugh almost bubbled up out of him as he stood there. How could it be that he was still living when all his young, brave, beautiful friends had fallen? The poison should have killed him. It almost had. He’d felt his body shutting down; the sparks of his brain withering - what had happened? He couldn't trust his memory, riven as it was with feverish tricks, but he was ashamed to recall begging for Tonks: desperately praying for her to either help him or put him out of his misery. Did his hands close around two objects - one a tiny sphere, the other made of glass - and did he swallow something down? Was that a dream? He hoped Mara had been as lucky as him, but he trusted his hope even less than his memory. 

“Right - no more messing around, you’re both learning how to fight,” said Jem. "We’ve gotta get stronger. We’ve gotta be ready for what’s coming.” 

\-------

The camp became an island: six thousand square metres surrounded by a forest that might as well have been an impassable ocean. Remus knew every inch of its ground and it seemed to shrink a little every day, just as every hour he spent there seemed to lengthen. The longer his separation from the outside world, the more inevitable it felt; the more unimaginable it became that he had ever walked among those un-afflicted. He was haunted by his uselessness: by the loss of his access to information. He knew hideous crimes were being perpetrated somewhere out there, but there was nothing he could do to stop them. At least in Remus’ hinterland years, before Dumbledore had found him and stepped over the threshold of his cottage to request his services as a professor, he was himself. Though every day on the moors had been the same and, he believed at the time, would continue to be the same until his body started failing and his old werewolf bones began to crumble inside his skin, he had at least carried the name he was born with. In the camp, he was a two-syllable invention: an undefined vessel for others to project onto. He hadn’t heard Sirius’ voice in his head for a long time now. Perhaps he’d given up on him. Remus couldn’t blame him. 

He didn’t trust his new kitchen colleagues: they didn’t cook the meat thoroughly enough and he’d seen them slipping something powdery into the thinning stew. Perhaps that explained why despite their depleted calorie intake and the growing nauseous listlessness, their muscles didn’t waste but seemed to harden. Meanwhile, Jem made good on his promise. Remus had always believed physical fighting to be purely brutish, based only on raw strength - nothing like the technicality of duelling. But he had been wrong. There were techniques to brutality and Jem knew them all. 

It was easy to lose track of the weeks. At some point, he turned thirty-seven but he couldn’t be sure when exactly: each day blended into the smell of meaty steam; into Jem telling them, “don’t hit like that, you’ll break your hand, it’s like this…”; into Silver telling them, “you are the pride of our kind, together we will show the Ministry, show _everyone_ , how mighty werewolves can be”. And all the while, their bodies continued to quake under the merciless cycle of the moon. One night in April, Remus and Cariad sat at the perimeter’s edge, stripping branches for firewood. When Remus looked up, he saw Jem approaching them at a run, his skinny legs going at full pelt. Remus got to his feet just as Jem came skidding to a stop. 

“He’s here. He’s finally come,” Jem panted, before turning and sprinting back.

The branch Remus had been holding slipped from his fingers. Cariad leapt to her feet and her nails dug into his arm. 

“No, no, no!” She cried, her forehead creased in fear. “I don’t want him here. I don’t want him here!”

“Shh. Stop it,” said Remus, looking around for listeners. “Don’t say that.” 

“He - he’s a killer! He’s a _killer_!” Cariad pulled on his jumper, barely able to get the words out through her rapid breathing. “And - and - he turns children! He’s a monster!” 

Remus _’_ pulse was hammering.

“You need to calm down.” 

But Cariad was staring out at the invisible camp boundary and wringing her hands.

“Cariad - look at me!”

He turned her round by the shoulders. She stared at him, eyes filling with frightened tears, her face aged so far beyond her fifty years.

“Don’t you ever say anything like that again,” he said quietly. “Do you understand me?” 

“But - but - Alban, you…” she stammered, swallowing. “You’re like me, you don’t believe the things they tell us. I wanted so badly to believe them when I first came here, but nothing - none of it - makes sense. I don’t feel better. I hate the wolf, _I hate it._ I know you feel the same way.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do! I know you do!”

“Cariad - 

“They want us to be _murderers,_ Alban. You know that as well as I do and now he’s here which means…”, she lowered her voice to a strained whisper, “we’ve got to get out of here.” 

“No, we don’t.” 

“Don’t you want to leave? I thought…”

She trailed off, looking more afraid than ever. Remus looked back at her blankly, knowing what he needed to do to keep her alive. 

“You’re the only real friend I’ve got,” she continued, tears falling now. “You’ve always said we need to think for ourselves. You can’t be like them, you _can’t_ , I won’t believe it…”

“Keep talking like that and you’ll end up like Mara. You know what happens to traitors. You know what happens to people who run.” 

Cariad took a step back, her eyes wide and horrified.

“Don’t ever talk like that again,” said Remus. “Not to me, not to Jem, not to anyone. Do you understand me?” 

She was looking at him like he was a stranger, which of course he was. When she spoke again, it was in the same hesitating tone she used when speaking to everyone else. 

“I - I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m just…I’m just _so hungry…_ maybe it’s that…I’m sorry, Alban.” 

“Take this wood over to the bonfires. Now that Greyback has finally joined us, we’ll be celebrating tonight.” 

She bent to pick up the branches from the ground and hurried away, tripping slightly. Remus closed his eyes, letting the news sink in. 

Fenrir Greyback. Here. In the flesh.

He’d always known this night would come: even before he came here, he’d somehow always known. There was a memory Remus had. He didn’t know whether it was real or whether his imagination had cobbled it together, but in it there were yellow eyes behind a window; a smashing of glass; a terrible shaking, like a dog shakes a rag between its teeth; and a pain too huge to understand, so huge that it overwhelmed everything, drowning his senses in the moment, flowing out into his unimaginable future. Remus began to walk towards the centre of the camp, feeling the unbalanced steps of that four year old walking with him. 

Before he knew the truth, he had assumed it was an accident. Remus used to imagine - even fantasize about - this unknown other, this kindred sufferer, who was surely filled with remorse - and, innocently, he came to forgive them. But his childish fantasy turned to ash. It all came out during that first halcyon year after graduating Hogwarts, when he and his four best friends shared Sirius’ house in Camden (boombox constantly blaring, snitches flying through every room, the walls bedecked in red and gold banners) before the war separated them. It was James Potter who had tugged on the thread of the Lupin family lie. During a run-of-the-mill Order task of searching through illegal copies of the Ministry’s criminal records archives to research a suspected Death Eater, he’d stumbled upon a photograph which caught his eye. A close-up of a fresh bite wound on a nameless child’s stomach in the file of one Fenrir Greyback. Stamped on the photograph was a date. James had knocked on his bedroom door, his normally laughing hazel eyes troubled. 

“Moony, I’ve found something,” he’d said. “Might just be a weird coincidence, but, well, I think you should take a look.” 

Remus had clung to denial: insisting it was indeed a weird coincidence and nothing more. All the same, something had made him take it to his parents’ house. His father began to weep the very second Remus drew the photograph out of his pocket. When all the explanations and entreaties were over, the blood started thumping in Remus’ head. It was the first and only time he’d ever shouted at his parents. He’d kicked a chair over, scraped at his own skin, pulled at his hair whilst a disgust he’d never known crept over him. But worst of all was the look of fear in his father’s eyes as he stared at his son. Had his own father seen something inhuman in him then? Something without a soul - like a victim of the Dementor’s Kiss but with the will of a beast? His changeling werewolf child, now fully-grown and dangerous?

Remus shook his head, trying not to let that familiar shame engulf him. He was close now. Peering through the crowds, he saw Greyback at last. His chest was barrel-broad, his matted hair like grey wire and when his mouth opened into a leering grin his teeth were yellow spikes. Remus could feel the power of his wand pulsing within the muscle of his leg. He could take it out. He could speak the words. He could avenge all of those dead children; all of those who had been cursed. He could prevent this monster from ever hurting anyone again. Remus’ hand twitched at his side. He felt hot. Was it the wolf in him that wanted to kill or the human? When he had stood with Sirius, resolved to avenge Lily and James, the decision to commit murder was coolly logical but now, metres away from the thing who had destroyed his life and so many others, it was blood he wanted. Greyback was the reason he longed for death every month; the reason for his parents’ life-long misery; the reason he would never be free to love Tonks. If it wasn’t for his bite, Remus’ friends would never have become animagi and Peter would never been able to frame Sirius, commit mass-murder, orchestrate Voldemort’s return…

_That’s where all of this started - with my becoming a werewolf._

Remus clenched his fists, attempting to get a hold on himself, trying to remember his instructions from Dumbledore; his appeal for patience. Where was the line between his humanity and his curse? And why couldn’t he tell the difference? 

“Alban!”

Remus jumped. It was Jem. 

“I just met him! Spoke to him and everything.” 

Remus blinked at him, unable to speak.

“It was alright, but…” Jem continued, kicking at the ground, “I don’t think he was that interested in me compared to the others, you know, ’cause, I’m not one of his….”

“One of his? He didn’t infect you, you mean?”

Jem nodded jerkily and stared down at his feet. 

“I wish.”

“It shouldn’t make any difference.” 

“It does though! Who bites you shapes what you’re like as a werewolf, everyone knows that. So if you get bitten by the most powerful werewolf alive, by our leader, that’s like…an _honour,_ you know? If I’d been bitten by him, I’d feel better…about everything that’s happened…” 

“What do you mean?”

Jem took a few seconds to reply.

“I guess…what I mean is…my mum, she - she wasn’t strong. She didn’t _mean_ to infect me, it wasn’t on purpose or anything…it was just that I was the only person she had to look after her…it was an accident, you know…”

"Where is she now?” Remus asked quietly.

"They took her. She’s in their prison. Azkaban. I thought they’d lock me up too so I made a run for it out the hospital. I was seven, so it was pretty easy to sneak away. That’s when things got really shit though. Living on the streets and…doing whatever to get by. That’s why it’s so great here. We can get our own back on the Ministry for the fucked up way it treats us and take power for ourselves. This civil war, or whatever it is, this is our chance. We can do anything with Greyback leading us. I can do anything. I can be somebody.”

"You don’t need Greyback to be somebody, Jem.” 

It wasn’t a lie. For every flash of violence or cruelty, there were as many glimpses into who this broken boy could have been in different circumstances: someone loyal, protective, resourceful. Jem laughed, suddenly awkward.

“Fucking hell! You trying to be, like, my dad or something?” 

He slouched away, melding into the crowd which was growing more raucous. Remus no longer felt like drawing his wand. Determination stole over him: his mission was far, far bigger than personal revenge. 

It didn’t take long for a party to kick off and soon the night was filled with the sound of drums and clashing pockets of song. Though the food was paltry, the drink flowed freely. Remus looked around and pictured the force that could be unleashed: almost one hundred werewolves rampaging through city streets or decimating a village, Voldemort could order a bloodbath at every full moon. The manic activity of the drunk, surging camp seemed to revolve around Greyback like a gravitational pull. The leaders stayed constantly by his side, but Remus saw no affection there. They were diminished in his presence: even Silver was muted and deferential. Beneath the revelry, Remus sensed dread. 

_I’m the only one here who doesn’t fear him._

Greyback spoke low to Turnskin who started yelling for the drums to stop. Greyback walked, his gait wide-legged and prowling, to a gap in the crowd: every eye watched him and a deathly silence fell. His sleeves were rolled up and Remus saw, with a strange feeling of satisfaction, that he had no dark mark. There was something about the way he moved too which made Remus certain he was carrying a wand. _Hypocrite._ When he spoke, he sounded like his throat had been half-cut.

“My brave wolves. You are a sight for sore eyes. I’ve been working for our freedom, spending time with _wizards,”_ he paused, smiling unpleasantly as jeers erupted, “an unenviable position, I know, but worth it to lay the groundwork for our new world. We werewolves will rule this country and when we do, we’ll live in wealth and comfort, free to do as we please, eat as we please, _kill_ as we please. No one will dare cross us then - no one will dare call us halfbreeds or scum or soulless - and live to see the dawn. Are you ready for that new world?” 

The cheering was so loud that Remus’ eardrums buzzed. Greyback bared his teeth. 

“Tonight, you will have a taste of it. Tonight, we will celebrate.” 

The drums and singing started up again. The Dark Side continued to flow. Remus moved through the groups, trying to ignore the ache of his empty stomach as he forced himself to talk and laugh with everyone he met. At the turn of midnight, a circle opened up and two women began fighting each other: kicking, scratching and biting as the onlookers roared. Remus was about to push through and separate them, but then he saw that Greyback was watching them. He sat with his thick legs apart, one set of filthy nails sunk into Silver’s shoulder where she knelt at his feet. Beside her were baskets of fresh food - meat, cheese, vegetables. Greyback was making them fight for rewards, like dogs. That’s what they really were to him: captured animals at his disposal, fodder to pay for Voldemort’s favour. One of the women - Lees - struck the other in the throat and she went down into the dirt, clutching her neck. Victorious, Lees seized one of the baskets and Section Three hurried away to feast. 

“Who’s next? Who else wants to prove themselves?” Turnskin called out. 

Rafe shoved his way into the circle, beating his chest with one fist. 

“Who else?” 

“What about our miracle man?” 

It was Silver, standing now and scanning the crowd. Remus felt a chill trickle down his back. He wanted to sink out of sight, but cold hands were jabbing at his back, pushing him out into the circle. He could see a blur of twisted, shouting faces, hear Jem yelling something at him, and then he was out in the open: facing Rafe who glowered at him, sizing him up. 

“You’ve already escaped death once - this should be easy for you,” said Silver, with a twist of the lip.

It was impossible. He wouldn’t do it. But when Remus shook his head and tried to withdraw, the line of bodies tightened and the circle became even smaller. Remus thought of Cariad - how thin she looked these days, the sores that had risen around her mouth - _“I’m just so hungry”_ , she’d said. And then Greyback looked directly at Remus and spoke:

“Who is this coward?” 

Remus stiffened, but saw no recognition in the yellowish eyes. Why would there be? Remus’ looks favoured his mother and, after all, infected children were ten-a-penny to him. 

“Alban. Section Eight,” he replied, staring levelly back. 

“A werewolf who can’t fight for his pack is worthless,” said Greyback.

Remus was trapped. Rafe was jumping on the spot, making bizarre growling noises. Remus began to pace the edge of the circle, his adrenaline rising as rapidly as his revulsion. He clenched and unclenched his fists, forgetting everything Jem had taught him. If they both held wands, he would know exactly how to proceed but - 

_Thump._

The blow hit Remus on the side of the head. White noise muffled the screaming of the onlookers. Before he could react, a fist collided with his mouth too. He heard a faint crack and staggered backwards, spitting a broken shard of tooth onto the ground, his mouth swilling with hot blood. Rafe was laughing: this was the man who had bent Mara’s arms behind her back, who had joked about targeted attacks. Remus bought himself some time by circling the rim. He sucked air into his lungs, seeking clarity: he could do this - hadn’t he been a soldier since the age of eighteen? What would Sirius do? 

Remus brought his fists level with his eyes, protecting his face. When Rafe swung, Remus dipped right and hooked his arm so the long bone of his ulna hammered his opponent’s forehead. Rafe jabbed his fingers towards Remus’ left eye, but Remus skipped to the side and landed a blow to his stomach; Rafe responded with a grapple and sent his head plowing into Remus’ chest, winding him. Everything became a chaos of bone on flesh and breaking skin. Remus almost lost his footing and stumbled back; there was a loud rip as Rafe’s hand tore through his jumper. Remus half-fell into the crowd who ripped the fabric off him; he tried to wriggle away but they left his torso bare and steaming with sweat in the cold spring night. Remus felt Greyback’s eyes on him. Sensing weakness, Rafe leapt at him; raining blows and trying to send him to the floor, but somehow one of Remus’ swings found its mark - the hard bone at the top of his wrist striking Rafe’s temple - and the other werewolf was sent flailing backwards to land hard on the ground. 

“Stop. You win. You fucking win.” 

The crowd exploded with noise. Blood dripped into Rafe’s eyes as he cradled his head. Remus looked down at him, mouth slightly open. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Fuck off,” said Rafe, clambering to his feet and limping out of sight. 

Remus thought he was going to vomit but, before he could turn to flee the circle, he came face-to-face with Silver.

“Well fought,” she said. 

As she handed him the basket, she seized the back of his head and licked the stream of blood that dripped down his cheek. Every hair on the back of Remus’ neck rose and his stomach lurched as he pulled away from her. Her high laughter seemed to echo as he pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring their congratulations and snatching up his ruined clothes. When he found Cariad, she flinched at the sight of him. He thrust the basket of food into her hands without a word. A new fight was beginning, but Remus headed for the tunnels, shaking. They were locked. 

“Where the hell are you going, man? Come and eat with us - you fucking earned it!” 

Jem had followed him, a chicken leg in one hand. 

“You fucking crushed that guy! They might choose you now, you know.” 

“Choose me? For what?” 

Jem raised his eyebrows and tore off a strip of flesh with his teeth. 

“For a little trip. I overheard them talking about it.” 

Remus swayed slightly on the spot: dizzy from more than just the blows to the head.

“What did you hear? Tell me.”

“We’re finally gonna see some action. At the Buck Moon.” 

_July. The werewolf army is going to strike in July._

“Come on, let’s go back! I’m gonna fight next - don’t you wanna watch me destroy someone?” 

“Of course…I just need to…I’ll be there in a minute…”

When he reached the very edge of the perimeter boundary, Remus slumped down. There was a metallic tang in his nostrils and the ground beneath him was so very cold. He thought about how it would feel to be underneath it; how peaceful it would be. 

“I’m not like them. I’ll never be like them,” he whispered, burying his face in his throbbing hands. 

It was when he closed his eyes, longing to feel only his humanity, to feel something utterly unconnected to this place he despised, that she came to him: clear and radiant as if it had been only yesterday. 

_Remus pulled back the curtains, letting the morning sun stream into his bedroom. Tonks sat up, one arm bent, the other stretched vertical; her hair a tangle of gold._

_“You’re a cruel man, Remus Lupin,” she said, her spine arching as she yawned._

_The duvet was wrapped around her, caterpillar-like, but she let it slip down revealing smooth, sunlit skin. Somewhere beyond the locked door, Remus could hear the familiar sound of Sirius’ footsteps on the stairs as he took Buckbeak his morning feed. Tonks cocked her head and grinned at him._

_“Does this mean I have to get dressed?”_

Definitely not, _he wanted to reply, but he only smiled back at her: his awe at being intimate with her rendering him speechless as it so often did. He stroked her hair and she shut her eyes in pleasure. It was blond this morning, shot through with rainbow strands. When he moved his hand away, she took it in hers._

_“Ink stains,” she said, turning over his fingers and stroking the tips. “And here’s me thinking I was the messy one.”_

_She kissed his hand softly then pulled him closer. The morning sun burned red behind his eyelids as his lips found hers._

Remus opened his eyes and he was back: it was night in the werewolf camp and Tonks was gone from him forever. He looked down at his hands: they were swelling with yellow bruises and there was black crusted blood beneath his nails. He closed his eyes again, praying for relief, but there was nothing. Only darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe everyone. So much love, T xx
> 
> p.s This story will eventually contain a little more joy and romance - I promise!


	8. Blood-Eyed Python

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that Tonks in this story is a tiny bit older than in canon (same school year as Bill, rather than Charlie).

**Chapter 8: Blood-Eyed Python**

Tonks turned another page in _The Master Auror_. It was 1944 and Celandine Gall, future mentor to Mad Eye Moody himself, was looking down on a Blitz-stricken London, outnumbered four-to-one by Grindelwald henchman, each with fiendfyre blossoming from their wand tips. Tonks had never been much of a reader, but the little paperback with its sagging spine was the only thing stopping her from pouring over her stack of Daily Prophets for the hundredth time. She had quite a pile now: the yellowing pages kept toppling and sliding across her dusty floor. Most thumbed of all was the issue from the previous week, dated twenty-first of April: ‘WEREWOLF ATTACK VICTIM DIES IN HOSPITAL’. The little Montgomery boy had been only five years old. His rosy-cheeked photograph floated in and out of Tonks’ dreams. Did Remus know? Was it killing him inside? Not even Dumbledore had the answers: all he could offer Tonks was another glimpse at Remus’ little golden light; still pulsing, still unfathomable.

Mildred fluttered onto the windowsill with a disapproving hoo. The eagle owl was kept busy these days delivering Tonks’ daily letters to Scrimgeour (‘… _Dumbledore in urgent departure to Bognor Regis, looked disturbed on return…Dumbledore taking regular strolls among the Hogwarts pumpkins…Potter juggling crystal balls to impress onlookers, love life still in chaos_ …’) Tonks flicked Mildred an owl treat and returned to her book, her elbow slipping in a smear of old baked bean juice. Gall had thrown herself off a building, but was still firing jinxes; Tonks wondered how she could have maintained her wand position at such speed, whether she’d -

A knock at the door.

Tonks slowly dog-eared the page. No one ever visited her. Maybe it was her landlord. Or Finlay. Or, Merlin forbid, Dawlish. She knew who it definitely wasn’t. But…what would she do if she opened it and there he was: grey eyes fastening onto hers, the silver in his hair glinting where the sun hit it, his thin frame buffeted by the wind at the top of the stairs? Would she bellow curses at him? Would she fling herself around him, arms and legs both, probably sending them toppling down the stairs? Would he even let her touch him at all - would he instead gently grasp her wrists, hold her at arm’s length and speak those words she hated, ‘I’m sorry’”?

Another knock.

“Tonks, you there? It’s Bill.”

“Bill?” Tonks’ chair screeched as she stood up. “What are you doing here?”

“Call it an intervention.”

“Molly sent you, you mean.”

“Nope. I’m a free agent.”

Tonks drew her wand and leant one shoulder against the door.

“In one of our seventh year Herbology classes, what did I do to end up in the hospital wing?”

Bill’s laugh was slightly muffled.

“I’d forgotten about that! You tripped over your bloody shoelace in the greenhouse and went head first into the stinksap swamp.”

“Bingo.”

Tonks opened the door. Bill stood, grinning: stray wisps of red hair from his bun dancing around his face.

“I’ve got one for you. Who was your date to our Leavers’ Ball?”

“You’re a twat for reminding me, Bill Weasley,” she said, though a smirk spread on her face despite herself. “Auden Blake. The one and only.”

“With the curtains - ”

“ - and the ruddy awful guitar playing,” Tonks beckoned him inside. “Do you want anything? I’ve got tea but, um, no milk. There might be some beers in the cupboard…”

“I’m alright, cheers,” Bill’s gaze travelled from the Daily Prophet tower, to the crusts of toast scattered across the unmade bed, to the glowering Mildred and back again. “Why don’t we go for a walk instead?”

“Where to?” She asked, frowning: she wasn’t on call, but the wireless news was due to start in ten minutes.

“Oh, just come here,” said Bill, linking his arm through hers. “You look like you need some fresh air.”

When they emerged from apparition, Tonks felt a softness beneath her feet. She squinted, shading her eyes, a breeze lifting her hair. They were on a stretch of beach: grassy dunes on one side, a navy ocean on the other.

“Much better! I love the beach. Me and Fleur are thinking of getting a place by the sea once we’re married.”

“You’re going to be married,” said Tonks, tucking her hands up into the sleeves of her jumper as she and Bill started walking.“That’s bonkers.”

“Yeah,” he said, beaming. “It is.”

“How’s it going? The organization and that?”

“Some days absolute pandemonium, some days just mere chaos.”

“Sounds a right faff. No offence.”

Bill laughed.

“The exhausting part isn’t the planning, it’s the constant arguing. If Mum and Fleur aren’t squabbling over petit fours versus treacle tarts, it’s whether the chairs should be gold or silver.”

“Bit of a palaver, isn’t it? Aren’t you tempted to just go down the pub for a piss-up instead?”

“Nah, I shouldn’t complain really. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Besides, it’s nice to have something to focus on that doesn’t involve Death Eaters.”

Tonks picked up a shell and turned it in her fingers.

“Why are you marrying Fleur?”

“Don’t you start! I’ve got Mum making not-so-subtle comments about how it’s too never late to change my mind and Ginny fondling her wand under the table every time Fleur speaks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. To be honest, I barely know Fleur but I’m sure she’s great. Very sexy accent. What I meant was, why get married at all? Why bother doing the whole official ceremony thing?”

“I paid you a visit because I wanted to find out how you are, not talk about myself.”

“Come on - spill. I’ve never really seen myself as the marrying kind, so I guess I’m curious.”

Bill stopped. The sea was creeping closer, white spume starting to froth around their shoes. He bent to pick up a stone, his ginger eyebrows furrowed.

“It’s going to sound really cheesy.”

“Cheesy doesn’t bother me. Go for it.”

“Alright, well. I want to get married because…sometimes when Fleur looks at me, my heart races like I’m doing two hundred miles an hour on a broom. Any morning that I don’t wake up with that silvery mane tickling my nose feels like a morning wasted. I want to see her wearing a white dress and smiling her perfect smile at me whilst I promise to turn ancient and saggy with her. Marriage might seem like a stuffy tradition - and maybe it is, I don’t know - but right now it feels more like a rebellion. It’s an opportunity to prove that despite everything you-know-who throws at us, we can still celebrate. We’re alive and we’re defiant. Truth is, I’d die for her and I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about me, though I fucking hope it never comes to that. But if it does, at least we’ve made that statement to the world: we’re part of each other, we’re each other’s…”

Tonks had never seen Bill blush before, but his earlobes were scarlet.

“Did that make any sense at all?” He said.

Tonks turned and looked out to where the sea met the sky, but her vision was blurry.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I should squeeze it into my vows somehow.”

Tonks’ chest ached from trying to stifle a rising sob.

“You okay, mate?”

She nodded, but the tears were already dripping off her chin.

“You know about…me and…?”

“You and Lupin? Yeah,” he said, gently. “Everyone knows. Well, everyone except Ron and his mates - even Ginny asked me the other day whether it was possible that you and _Sirius_ had had a thing.”

Tonks tossed her throbbing head and blinked up at the clouds.

“Why do people find it more likely that I’ve fallen for a member of my own family than for a werewolf? Pretty fucked up when you think about it.”

Bill chuckled, though Tonks didn’t really think it was funny.

“Maybe they see Sirius as being more, well, your type than Lupin. A bit more rocker, a bit less…librarian.”

“Just because he’s an amazing teacher and is good at taking care of people doesn’t mean he’s not my ‘type’. Whatever the hell that means.”

Bill threw a stone. It skipped neatly over the waves.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like Lupin. I respect him. But…and I’m not really sure how best to phrase this…he’s a bit damaged, isn’t he?”

“Anyone would be damaged if they’d been through what he’s been through,” Tonks snapped, letting the shell she’d been holding plop into the water.

“I know, I know. And maybe it’s not my place to say this - I didn’t spend much time at Grimmauld Place last year so I don’t know how things were between you - but are you sure he’s good for you?”

“Did your mum tell you to say this?”

“No! She’s Lupin’s greatest cheerleader, you know that. This is coming from me. I’m worried about you. Since when do you, of all people, let a guy break your spirit like this? If it was any of your mates, you’d be cranking up the music, telling them he can get stuffed, and forcing them out to the pub.”

“You don’t get it. This isn’t like some ordinary break-up. Remus hasn’t run off with another girl, he’s out there in the wilderness, surrounded by Greyback’s trained monsters, risking a hideous death twenty-four hours a day whilst trying to stop a werewolf army massacring the public. You really think going out and getting hammered is going to help me forget about that?”

“No, I don’t, to be fair. But he could have handled things between you a bit better, couldn’t he? He’s hurt you. Really badly.”

“Everything he did, he did because he thinks he’s not good enough for me. He thinks he’s too old,” Bill made a ‘he’s not wrong’ kind of face, but Tonks only scowled and ploughed on, “and too dangerous because he’s internalized all of the hateful things society believes about werewolves. He point-blank refuses to believe that I don’t care about any of that.”

“I’m not saying he made the right decision, but - and don’t take this the wrong way - if someone insists they don’t want a relationship and they break off all contact for _months_ , doesn’t there eventually come a time when you have to listen to them? To respect their decision?”

“No! If you love Fleur the way you say you do, try and imagine yourself in my shoes. If she got bitten and cold-shouldered you in the name of your own safety, would you respect that decision?”

“No, but - ”

“Exactly! I’ll never respect something that comes from a dark pit of self-disgust. Remus puts up these walls not because he wants to but because he thinks he has no choice! If you spend your whole life believing that you’re lucky to even be allowed in the same room as everyone you care about, it’s obviously going to fuck up your self esteem! I just need the chance to prove to him that he’s not the lucky one, I am! Because he’s the bravest person I’ve ever met, not despite his condition, _because_ of it. I didn’t choose to fall in love with him, but I’m choosing never to stop. It makes no difference if no one else gets it, it’s just the way it is.”

Tonks’ tears had all dried up. Bill stared at her, his green eyes unreadable for a few moments. Then he sighed and, slowly, started to nod.

“Maybe I do get it after all. If there’s ever anything I can do to help, just let me know okay?”

“I might have to hold you to that.”

——-

Bill invited her for dinner with Fleur at the Burrow, but Tonks said no. There was something nagging at her: it had begun as a faint guilty twinge on the beach, but now it was making her stomach squirm. There was something she had to do. She’d professed herself to Bill, to Dumbledore, even - and the memory was a little nauseating - to _Snape_ , but not the two people who loved her most. She’d deceived them for too long. If, as she’d sworn, she wasn’t ashamed to love Remus then it was time to explode the secret once and for all. She didn’t send an owl ahead, but apparated straight there before she could change her mind; sand still caked into the soles of her boots.

“Nymphadora! What’s happened? Is something wrong?”

It was a scene of such ordinariness - her dad with flour down his apron slicing a tray of brownies; her mum perched at the kitchen counter - that Tonks already half-regretted her invasion.

“Nothing’s wrong! Just, um, thought I’d pop in.”

“Fancy a brownie, love? I’ve got to head out in a bit - I’ve been called to the office, on a Sunday - can you believe it?”

Tonks summoned a bite-size chunk out of the pan and shovelled it in: the molten chocolate burnt the roof of her mouth but the sweet gooeyness was calming. Andromeda watched her, neat black eyebrows slightly raised.

“What is it?” She asked.

Tonks swallowed.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

The domestic scene turned into a still-life: Ted’s knife froze in mid-air, its point wedged in chocolate; Andromeda seemed not to blink.

“What you said at Christmas - you were right. The truth is I met someone last year. We were in a relationship - well, sort of. It’s complicated. But what matters is,” she took a breath, “I loved him…I mean, I _love_ him.”

“Blimey,” said Ted. “Who’s the lucky fella?”

“The man who took you to St Mungo’s,” said Andromeda softly.

“Yeah,” said Tonks, glancing at her mother a little sheepishly. “He’s in the Order too. That’s how we met. The trouble is, I haven’t seen him since last summer - since the day I left hospital, in fact. Dumbledore sent him on an undercover mission.”

“So you’ve been heartsick all this time? Oh love, I’m sorry,” said Ted, reaching over to give her shoulder a floury squeeze, “have you been keeping in contact with him?”

“No…”

“Why not?” Asked Andromeda, unsmiling.

Tonks bit her lip.

“He doesn’t think we should be together.”

“Why on earth not?”

“A few reasons. He’s a bit older than me, for one.”

“How old exactly?”

“Thirty-six…er…thirty-seven now, actually. And also, he’s a werewolf.”

The apron strings Ted had been untying slipped from his hand and the whole apron dropped to the floor.

“What?” Andromeda demanded, the whites of her eyes bright.

“He’s a werewolf,” Tonks repeated.

“Is that some kind of joke, Nymphadora? Because I don’t find it amusing.”

“It’s not a joke, Mum. He got bitten when he was a little kid.”

Ted looked as if he’d walked smack-bang into a brick wall. Andromeda’s lips were set in a thin line.

“Nymphadora,” she said, breathily. “I know that, well, you’ve always liked to be a rebel but this…this is just…a _werewolf_? Don’t you understand, didn’t you consider how - how… _dangerous_ ….how…”

“He’s not just a werewolf, he’s kind and witty and one of the Order’s finest. He was Sirius’ best friend.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” She hissed. “I wasn’t given a chance to get to know Sirius, was I?”

Tonks took a jerky step backwards, as if her mother had slapped her.

“He’s fought in both wizarding wars, watched his friends die, risked his life over and over again - all to keep people like you safe!”

“He also transforms into a blood-thirsty beast every month.”

“So fucking what?!”

“Don’t you swear at us.”

“I’m not swearing at Dad, I’m swearing at you and I’ll keep doing it if you don’t stop insulting him. You think he _likes_ being a werewolf? You think he enjoys being treated like shit? Or - what? Do you think he’s out there stalking for victims every full moon?”

“Werewolf or not…” Ted began, looking nervously at his wife who was gripping the counter-top with white knuckles. “You said that he broke up with you - what kind of a person would break up with our Dora? You’ve been glum and wretched this whole year past - has that all been because of him?”

“He did it because he thinks he’s not good enough for me.”

Andromeda gave a cold laugh.

“He’s got sense enough to see that at least.”

“You’d actually like him if you met him, you know. He’s nothing like me.”

“What were you _thinking_? Someone like that could never give you the kind of life you deserve, he can’t even - ”

Ted placed a hand on Andromeda’s arm, she looked at him sharply but stopped speaking.

“It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all love,” he said. “Your mother and I aren’t prejudiced. We believe in equal rights, of course we do. And we know all that stuff about loss of moral sense and soullessness is just nonsense. I’d accept anyone if I believed they truly loved you.”

“Ted - ”

“I would, ‘Dromeda! And so would you, if you were thinking straight. But this man’s upped and left you. That’s not what my daughter deserves.”

“Perhaps he got what he wanted and moved on,” said Andromeda, acidly. “Seems to me he did rather well for himself - a well-paid girl over a decade younger than him.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Tonks’ voice had risen to a yell. “You raised me not to be prejudiced, not to judge anyone on their blood!”

“We raised you to be _tolerant_ , not to take werewolves to your bed!”

“Don’t worry Mum, lycanthropy’s not sexually transmitted,” Tonks said, with bitter sarcasm. “Do you know who you fucking sound like by the way? I think your big sister would be proud.”

Andromeda leapt to her feet.

“How dare you? How _dare_ you compare me to her?”

“I thought you were better than this! You married Dad! You turned your back on that rancid family! It was you two against the world - the kind of extraordinary union that gives birth to a metamorphmagus! What makes this is so different? What?”

Before anyone could answer, Tonks shook her head furiously.

“You know, what? Fuck this conversation. I can’t even look at you right now.”

She stormed for the door, ripped it open, then hurried across the grass, tearing up muddy rivets as she headed towards the limit of the anti-apparition zone.

_“There’s a huge difference between wanting legal equality for werewolves and wanting your only daughter to bring one home!”_

Remus was right. How dare he be right? Tonks drew her wand to apparate.

“Nym - _Dora_ , wait!”

Tonks whirled around. Her mum was running over the grass, shoeless, hair springing loose from its elegant clips.

“Come back inside. Let’s keep talking about this, please.”

“Not if you keep on judging him. I won’t stand for it.”

“When I heard ‘werewolf’, I saw…I saw everything I was brought up to see. I knew you were hiding something, but I never imagined it could be…Oh, Nymphadora, please come back inside.”

Back in the living room, Ted was pulling on his work robes, still looking dazed. When Tonks entered, he went to her and cupped her chin in his hand.

“Think of what your Nana Tonks would say. If he hasn’t treated you well, you’re better off without him.”

“Dad, it’s…it’s complicated,” she said again; with little faith that the speech which worked on Bill would have the same result on her parents. “You’d better go. You’ll be late otherwise.”

“Don’t kill each other whilst I’m gone.”

He kissed Tonks on the head, then went to the fireplace. He was gone in a blaze of chartreuse flame.

“Your father’s right,” Andromeda whispered. “And if my sister finds out she’ll hunt you down. She’ll show no mercy.”

Tonks let air out through her teeth, trying not to notice the tears that sparkled in her mum’s eyes.

“She’s already hunting me. If I conform to her dogma, she’s won. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - I’m not going to let her kill me - or you, or Dad.”

“Bellatrix doesn’t want to kill me.”

Tonks blinked.

“I’m pretty sure she does, Mum.”

“No. You don’t understand her like I do. She wants to kill Ted and she wants to kill you, but me…no. She wants to keep me alive - all the better to hurt me. She wants to annihilate every single person I love and keep me alive to watch her do it. And if she finds out about this…you’ll have given her a weapon more terrible than anything she’s ever been able to wield against us before. I’ll never forget what she said to me that night,” Andromeda lowered herself onto the sofa, running her hands over her arms. “I was stupid, sentimental - I thought I had time to pack some of my things, but she came into my room and jinxed me. I couldn’t move. Narcissa stood and watched whilst Bellatrix climbed on top of me. She said, ‘Annie, I’ll make you live to regret this. When you’re letting that mudblood befoul you, you’re going to think of me. Every little piece of joy in your life will turn to rot because you’ll know that I’ll be coming to take it away from you’. And she made sure I’d never forget,”

Her mother’s delicate fingers plucked at the skin of her forearm. Pale skin pealed away like paper and for one horrible moment, Tonks thought it was a dark mark. But it wasn’t. It was a snake. A fat, scaled python with blood red eyes. It was coiled around something striped and furry, constricting it so tightly that its bones were breaking. Tonks dropped onto the sofa beside her, wide-eyed.

“I - I never knew…”

“We tried everything to get rid of it, but nothing worked,” said Andromeda, smoothing the replacement skin back over the mark until it merged. “I’ve wished for your abilities more than once.”

“How did you get away?”

“It was Christmas Eve, so the house was full of family. Sirius can’t have been much older than ten, but he must have snuck into the room. My parents kept a priceless old bust of Salazar Slytherin on the landing. He smashed it over my sister’s head. I don’t know how the jinx broke, I suppose I did it myself somehow. I was half-mad with terror. I made it to the window, Narcissa didn’t stop me. And little Sirius just kept laughing fit to burst.”

Tonks remembered that laugh.

“Bellatrix’ll get hers,” said Tonks. “She’ll pay for everything she’s done, I swear she will. But no one is going to stop me from loving who I want.”

“I never thought a daughter of mine would become an Auror,” said Andromeda quietly, staring unseeing at the fireplace. “I never had much skill at duelling. All the women in my family had steel in their blood apart from me. I’ve never been so afraid of anything as of my sister.”

“I’m sorry for comparing you to her. But you shouldn’t have said that stuff about Remus.”

“Remus. Is that his name?”

“Remus Lupin.”

“When I saw him at the hospital, I could tell he cared for you by the look on his face. So stricken. So lost,” Andromeda twisted her silver wedding ring around her finger, “I’m not always the mother you want me to be, am I?”

“Well,” Tonks shifted her weight and attempted a smile, “I’m not exactly the daughter you expected. I mean, ’Gift of the Nymphs’? Seriously?”

“Nothing about my life is what I expected. But I’m grateful for every second of it. I’ve never told you this before but…they wanted me to marry Rabastan Lestrange.”

Tonks’ jaw dropped.

“Yes. They wanted me ensconced in a mansion, sitting in dimly lit rooms behind velvet curtains; womb swelling every year with a new pureblood child for the Dark Lord. Instead, I have a raging punk for a daughter and a husband who bakes chocolate brownies on Sundays. My life changed forever when I climbed out of that window. And I love your father as much now as I did then. With every fibre of my being.”

“I know how that feels.”

Andromeda didn’t reply. She lifted her hands to touch the limp strands of Tonks’ hair. Trying not to flinch, she let her hair be smoothed and neatened; rising to a chignon at the back of her skull under her mum’s hands.

“You don’t need all that colour and fuss. You’re beautiful without it. Thank you for telling us the truth.”

“But do you accept it?” Tonks demanded, wriggling backwards on the sofa. “I need you to accept it.”

“Forgive me Nymphadora, but I’m not sure what you’re asking me to accept. He’s gone. You said it yourself - you haven’t seen him in almost a year.”

“Yes, but he’s being an idiot! He’s insisting that I’ll get over it and I won’t! If I saw him again, I could convince him - I could make him see that he was wrong.”

“You mustn’t pressure someone into being with you. It can only end badly. Sometimes two people are simply too different.”

“You and Dad are different!”

“But your father didn’t drag me out of my family’s house, I went willingly. If this Remus is fighting against you, there’s a good reason for it. You’ll grow and be stronger without him, my darling.”

Tonks looked down at her hands, clicking her knuckles, twisting her fingers in her lap. If Remus truly loved her, wouldn’t he have chucked his insecurities to the wind and actually declared it? Was it even possible to be in love with someone and knowingly put them through hell? She’d convinced herself that his patronus must have changed too, but she’d never actually seen it, had she? All she had was hope: a hope that wouldn’t budge, a hope that might be crazy, a hope that insisted Remus burned with as much love as she did and only her faith in him could give him the courage to believe in himself.

“I never thought I’d say this, but maybe I did inherit something from the women of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Steel in the blood. I’m not going to give up on him, Mum.”

“Oh, _Nymphadora_ ,” Andromeda said, lowering her head into her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Utterly overwhelmed by all the lovely messages this week. Thank you SO much for reading. Up next is the first of two chapters for Shadow Boxing’s halfway-point finale! I can’t wait to share it with you. Hope you’re all staying safe out there. xx


	9. Take Your Freedom, Part 1

**Chapter 9: Take Your Freedom, Part 1**

Ten moons. Remus had suffered ten moons at the camp. In a little over an hour, it would be his eleventh. In a little over a month, it would be his last, though to leave was unimaginable. He hadn’t set foot outside the boundary in so long that the place’s smell - boiling fat and woodsmoke - its sounds - crackling flames and harsh voices - its nocturnal rhythms, seemed indivisible from his own self now. Whatever July’s moon would bring, Remus doubted he would wake the following dawn. Now, in June, Remus drew his knees up to his chest where he lay beneath Section Eight’s thin blanket and held his spinning head tight between his palms. His limbs were restless, the ache too deep to be soothed. Beside him, Jem thrashed; making the frame they lay on tremble. Remus longed for sleep, but knew it would not come: it never did, so close to the change. Sweat was his dread in liquid form, seeping from his pores and dampening his clothes. His heart raced and slowed, raced and slowed. His body was fighting a losing battle: its temporary death, its inevitable collapse into un-being, was coming.

“Out.”

A boot collided with one of the bed’s metal legs. It was Turnskin.

“Stop lazing around. It’s time to go,” he said.

“Too early,” Jem groaned into the pillow. “There’s like an hour til moondown.”

“Don’t fucking talk back to me. I said, it’s time to go.”

Their blanket was stripped away. Cariad whimpered. Remus pushed himself up with his palms and eased his legs over the edge. When the swoop of faintness subsided, he took hold of the hem of his jumper and made to pull it over his head - he needed to undress and perform the sleight of hand required to conceal his wand in the bed’s frame - but Turnskin grabbed a fistful of his jumper and pulled him to his feet.

“Come as you are. There’ll be time for that later. Silver’s got something to say.”

Shuffling out to the corridor, they met a crush of bodies all trooping out into the early evening sun, jammed together in the narrow tunnel. When they eventually emerged out onto the grass, Cariad doubled-over, her bony shoulders heaving as hacking coughs took her, jostled and bumped by those who passed. Remus helped her on, though she flinched at his touch; still cautious in his presence. Blinking in the sun’s low glare, he looked out towards the centre of the camp. A wooden platform had been erected. Someone was standing on it, watching the procession of weary bodies. But it wasn’t Silver. Electrified by a surge of panic, Remus glanced back to see the tunnels being locked. No. Not tonight. It couldn’t be tonight. But the crowd was pushing them onwards, closer, closer to where Greyback was waiting. Remus squeezed ahead to seize Jem’s arm.

“July. You told me it would be _July_. Not tonight!”

Jem stared at him, looking dazed: his angular face hollowed out, his eyes sunken and huge.

“That’s what I heard. July. But, Alban - ”, Jem placed his hand on Remus’, his smile rapturous, “it’s okay. I’m ready. They’ll choose me, I know they will.”

Remus couldn’t look at him, couldn’t let the pain of it distract him. He needed to think: the slightest mistake and it would all be for nothing. Since Jem’s tip-off, Remus had sent countless painstaking messages back and forth to Mad Eye; agreeing code words, devising instructions for Charlie Weasley’s evacuation network. Everything was prepared - everything, but for one crucial element. Remus’ hand strayed to his pocket though he knew there was nothing there that could help him. No Wolfsbane. He had only until sundown to prevent whatever bloodbath Greyback had planned.

“Move that way a bit. You’re not standing right,” said Jem, poking at Remus’ shoulder, pushing him into position.

Remus looked around. He was one figure amongst lines and rows of many. Once they had been a rabble, but now they were ordered, almost regimental. Every tired, hungry face stared up into the Greyback’s yellowish eyes as he paced the wooden platform, the boards groaning under every step, the curved lumpish muscles of his shoulders straining against his clothing.

“Well, my friends, my brave wolves, it’s a beautiful summer’s evening for vengeance. The sky will be clear tonight. The moon calls to us and we must answer.”

The crowd rippled with each word: a silent, contagious tremor of anticipation. Remus felt himself - every inch from aching feet to dirty beard - absorbed and anonymous amongst them. They were all alike in their frayed clothes, in the smell of smoke and charred meat that clung to their hair and skin, in the pain that swelled in their bones with the dying of the light. He stood silently, but inside he screamed at his own failure; his unreadiness. He had wished so many times to be able to see into the hearts of his fellows, but never more so than in this moment. Had the camp’s indoctrination truly been successful? Would they willingly obey Greyback, follow him into murder? How he wished he could know whether the craving for blood and atavism was what made the air around them hum or whether they, like he, felt a terror and disgust so strong he could die just to be free of it. 

“The night has come. The night you so richly deserve. Tonight we will avenge the insults. We will avenge the abuse. We will show them our power and they will be cowed by it. Tonight will be a reckoning! The first night of glory for our kind!”

Every proclamation was met by throaty cheers. The ache between Remus' joints deepened, his mouth was dry and his stomach rolled with bile. As the sun burned the horizon behind him, Greyback’s matted grey hair seemed to rise up around his head like golden flames.

“Tonight…we will be the uninvited guests to a rather special wedding feast,” Greyback’s laugh was like the churn of wet gravel, “the bridegroom is a man by the name of Golp. You may have heard of him…the Head of the Werewolf Capture Unit.”

Greyback stopped to allow the howls of outrage to erupt: there were few werewolves present who did not have first-hand experience of the department’s brutality.

“That’s right, this man and his underlings will all be there - swilling their champagne, gorging themselves, fat on the spoils of our oppression. But we’ll see how their arrogance fares when we make our grand entrance: when they are caught by surprise without cages and Ministry tricks to protect them. Richmond Park is the site of their sick celebration, but we’ll turn it into our field of retribution. We shall travel there, just before the change. Then the wolf will take over and we three will lead you to your revenge.”

At Greyback’s feet, Remus saw an empty bottle, a carving knife and a crumpled sheet. Three portkeys. He looked at Silver who was fingering something bottle-shaped in her pocket, a plume of smoke just visible: Wolfsbane. So that was how the army’s leaders would guide their mindless soldiers. Few things were more dangerous than a werewolf’s body controlled by the cunning of a vengeful human. Remus’ pulse thumped and his skin flushed hot then cold. Choosing the right moment to strike was essential: as close as possible to transformation, but with enough time to destroy the portkeys, alert the Order and incapacitate the leaders before they could swallow their final dose. The camp loyalists would rip him limb-from-limb of course, but Remus had no choice: this was the mission he’d accepted, this was his responsibility. Only he could stop the massacre. Only he could keep his campmates souls’ intact.

“The rewards will be greater than you can possibly imagine. Our friends are boundless in their generosity. But only the strongest can run with me tonight. Those who are not chosen, know that your time will come - but you must work, you must prove yourselves true werewolves, or you’ll never rise to their same glory.”

The first names were recited: Luther…Rafe…Lees…Cram…Hanna…Jem…

For a split second, Jem’s eyes locked with Remus’ and he saw - what? A flicker of doubt, of fear? But then Jem grinned and strode to the front of the lines, snapping whatever fleeting thread had connected them. The remaining names were declared, creating a force of twenty. ‘Alban’ was not among them. It was time for Remus to take up his true name again. The name he’d borne through every trial of his life until it brought him to this place. The same name he’d worn when Tonks - so far away now and surely despising him - had sworn that she loved him. Remus knew he had likely reached the last moments of his life and so he allowed himself - just for these few, sweet final seconds - to remember her. Tonks. Dora. Dora whose memory now filled him with courage like a blaze of phoenix fire. Dora’s sleeping breath on his chest…Dora gasping between kisses in his arms…Dora in all her ferocity telling him “I get more fucking in love with you everyday".

But Remus had to grind his back teeth together as pain flashed suddenly in his temple. Time was running out. He raised his head, defiant, ready to step out of line, but then he realised: Greyback was looking directly at him. And he was smiling. 

“How could I forget? There is one more who I haven’t yet named. Lupin, why don’t you come up here and join us?”

Iron fists closed around Remus’ upper arms. The crowd parted, too shocked even to whisper amongst themselves, as he was half-dragged through their ranks.

“What are you doing? Leave him alone!”

But Cariad was shoved back as easily as if she’d been a child. She fell, doll-like onto the ground, to weak to stand back up.

“Alban, why are they doing this?” She cried.

Remus looked back at her and shook his head, signalling with his eyes as best as he could: _don’t get yourself killed for me_. He knew better than to struggle as he was pulled up the stairs onto the platform. He faced Greyback: the two of them, at long last, seeing each other with mutual recognition.

“A traitor. A rat pretending to be a wolf,” Greyback pointed a yellow-nailed finger at Remus’ face and addressed the crowd. “He’s been spying on us all. Go on, tell them who you really are.”

“It’s not true!” Jem shouted suddenly from the front of the lines. “Alban, tell them they’ve got the wrong man! Fucking tell them!”

“Say it. Say your name,” Greyback hissed.

Remus raised his chin, his eyes never leaving Greyback’s.

“Remus John Lupin.”

There was a swell of shouting, a wave of abuse that assaulted his eardrums, objects that whistled over his head. Greyback seized Remus’ hair, yanking his head back at an angle.

“You thought you were getting away with it, didn’t you? You thought you were better than us.”

Greyback’s huge fist collided first with Remus’ cheekbone, then doled out a gut-rending blow to his stomach. Remus’ knees gave way, his moon-weakened body trying to tip to the floor, but the two who held him kept him propped him up like a marionette. Cheers and laughter rang out, but Remus also heard a scream: Cariad was running for the stairs, but Jem grabbed her around the waist and wrestled her still. They both stared up at him: Cariad’s face striped with tears, Jem’s eyes two dark pools of fury. Greyback slapped Remus’ face, forcing his gaze back to him. He was so close that Remus could see the red webs of broken capillaries across his cheeks, could smell the rot on his breath. Filthy, sharpened fingernails crept under Remus’ clothes and stroked down the length of his scar. Seized by a primal disgust, Remus tried to wrench himself away but he was held tight.

“Did you think I wouldn’t recognise my own mark? I knew you from the moment I saw this.”

Remus didn’t want to scream but when Greyback sank his claw-like fingers deep into the rivet of his scar, he did. He was suddenly four years old; he was suddenly drowning in an unfathomable pain. Greyback leant close and spoke so only he could hear.

“My children tell me they poisoned you, but you had a most _miraculous_ recovery. Falsely blaming that coward who ran away was a smart move. She ended up just another unclaimed werewolf corpse disposed of by the Ministry, whilst you lived to spy another day. But I for one am glad you refused to die - we’d never have been able to have this little talk otherwise.”

He beckoned to Turnskin who came forward. Remus’ body bucked as a new storm of fists assaulted his torso.

“Watch what happens to a traitor who lies to his fellow wolves, who lies to _himself_. I’ll tell you who this werewolf really is: a friend to Ministry workers, a former _professor_ at the very school that preaches hate of our kind, a minion of the hypocrite Dumbledore.”

They dropped Remus to the floor. Before he could curl up and protect himself, the kicking began: stomach, head, ribs. Something cracked deep inside his chest. He could barely breathe. But when the blows finally ceased, he lifted his bloody face and spoke to the watching camp.

“Dumbledore…is…our…greatest ally.”

Greyback picked Remus up by the neck of his jumper.

“And what has your noble hero ever done for werewolves? He kept you as his special, spoiled little pup - you feasted whilst the rest of our kind starved! Dumbledore’s made a fool out of you. You really think any of your so-called friends ever respected you? Your whole life has been a pretence.”

“You know nothing of my life,” Remus managed to whisper, blood rattling in his throat with every breath.

“Oh, I know more than you could possibly imagine. You see, I’ve been speaking with an old friend of yours.”

Remus felt cold, despite the burn of the evening sun.

“That’s right,” said Greyback, revealing each yellow tooth in a slow grin, “he told me all about how easy it was to turn them against you. They never really saw you as a friend, as an equal - you were an entertaining project for them, nothing more. You fed their vanity, you made them feel so very noble, so _charitable_ , for tolerating your presence. Deep down, you know I’m right. You’ve always known.”

“You’re wrong,” said Remus, in his mind’s eye seeing a black dog bounding across heather, transforming into a man who opened his arms wide to embrace him.

“Shut up, scum,” Silver interjected, her hand still clamped over what was in her pocket.

Greyback raised a hand to quiet her. His mouth was downturned; a wistful, almost sad, look on his ravaged face.

“Perhaps it’s my own fault. I wanted your father to suffer, so I abandoned you to him. But it wasn’t he who raised you, it was Dumbledore: that old man moulded you, first into a soldier, then into a spy. I thought you would grow up to be weak like your father, but I was wrong. I’ve seen the power in you: the untameable anger, the strength of the wolf, the fire that belies your professed allegiance. When I saw you fight, I knew you weren’t completely lost to me. That’s why you’re coming with us tonight.”

“You’ll see me dead first.”

“Oh no, Lupin - you’re not dying on us. You’ll be more alive tonight than you’ve ever been in the whole of your wasted life. I want to see how you react when you wake up with the blood of those who have oppressed you smeared across your skin; with their flesh still wedged between your teeth. Then you’ll know what it really means to be a werewolf. Like me.”

Remus looked up at the sky: there were mere minutes left. He closed his eyes and let his mind feel for the wand concealed within his flesh; let his thoughts travel across the camp to where the tunnels were.

“I’ll never be like you. You’re more of a werewolf than I’ll ever be.”

Remus let a single word dance around his brain and felt the magic rising in him like magma under earth. Greyback cackled, a little uncertainly, but Remus spoke again.

“And I’m a far better wizard.”

The tunnels exploded in a roaring tower of smoke. Flames licked the sky, screeching like fireworks, and hot earth rained down on the camp. The werewolves broke ranks; lurching to the left away from the conflagration, shouting in alarm. Shock loosened the hands that held Remus and he ducked free. In an instant, he’d ripped his wand from its fleshy hiding place and it was firm in his hand. He sent two stunners at his captors who flew backwards off the platform, then Remus whirled around to face Greyback; dodging a curse that barrelled towards his face. They faced one another, wands drawn. Behind Greyback’s right shoulder, the unarmed Silver and Turnskin hesitated, giving Remus the second he needed to bind their wrists and ankles: they hit the wood face first and writhed there, helpless. Greyback sent an Imperius curse his way, but Remus was too quick: he flipped up a plank to block the spell then cast an amplifier on his own voice.

“You may not have known I was concealing a wand, but I knew you were,” said Remus, his words echoing across the camp where its frozen inhabitants stood, all eyes on the two weapons. “You old hypocrite. It’s one rule for you, another for them. There’s no justice here. There’s no equality.”

“Are you really arrogant enough to think you can duel your way out of this? That never worked for your dead friends, did it? Or is this simply desperation? It’s almost a hundred against one, Lupin. I don’t fancy your chances.”

But Remus could see the fear beneath the bravado. He forced a smile onto his face in a show of confidence he didn’t truly feel. The moon was close, too close.

“I won’t let you force them to commit murder. _Reducto_.”

The empty bottle portkey exploded. Silver and Turnskin let out strained shouts as the Wolfsbane containers they concealed shattered in their pockets, the wasted liquid leaking out onto the boards. Remus tried for Greyback’s dose next, but was deflected and soon thick black ropes were snaking across the platform towards him. Remus flicked his wand and they snapped back, bursting into shards which he jinxed with stunners and hurled towards Greyback. Greyback sent the shards spiralling away with a wild motion of his wand and they pattered down onto the ground, knocking a few of the camp unconscious and causing the others to back away further, still dumbstruck by what they were witnessing. Remus cast a shield charm and circled his wand so it wrapped Greyback in a dome.

“They deserve the truth,” said Remus, his voice, though breathy and wheezing, still blaring out across the camp. “You call me traitor, but you’re the one selling us to the highest bidder: feeding us scraps, consoling us with a fantasy, all to make us fight for the very people inherently opposed to our existence. You call me Dumbledore’s dog, but you obey Voldemort so what does that make you? He doesn’t even respect you enough to let you wear the Dark Mark, does he?”

The shield charm shattered; punctured by a killing curse. Remus hurled himself out of the way, though it sent a hellish spasm of pain across his failing body. As he straightened up, he caught sight of the sheet portkey and sent an _Incendio_ to turn it to useless ashes.

“You - ” Greyback began, but Remus silenced him.

“They’ve heard enough of your lies,” he turned to the camp, wand still trained on Greyback. “Greyback doesn’t fight for werewolves, he fights for Voldemort - and no one despises our kind more than his followers. When we’re no longer of use to the Death Eaters, they’ll kill every last one of us. You’ve been told that this place will bring you freedom, but it can bring you only death,” Remus tried to summon Greyback’s vial of wolfsbane, but he held it fast, “our infection is just that, an _infection_. A sickness. The wolf we are cursed to turn into is utterly indifferent to us, we can never reach communion with it: it is not pure or sublime, it is - ” Remus had to lurch to his knees suddenly as another killing curse whistled over his head, “ - a _parasite_. We’ll always fear the moon because of the human in us. No matter how hard you try, you’ll never truly shake off your humanity. You think you crave blood, but it isn’t true. You crave acknowledgement from a world that’s turned its back on you. But we won't make a better world by transforming ourselves into the very thing they accuse us of being - monsters. I won’t deny that we are despised. But there are some people…” Remus struggled for a moment, his body on the point on collapse, “who support our rights and who wish to help us. We have to hope. We have to - ”

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

As soon as Remus heard the words for the third time, he knew he didn’t have the strength to avoid it; that death would be with him in seconds, but the green light fizzled at the end of Greyback’s wand. He was weakening. The werewolves of the camp were cowed too, some laying on the ground. But Remus forced himself to stay upright, trying to lock eyes with as many as he could. He had so little to offer them, but he had to try.

“You may hate me, but please - listen to me. When the sun rises, get yourselves out. You don’t have to return to your families if they won’t take you, you can build a new life - together, with the friends you’ve made here, or alone if that would comfort you. But if you want a new start, far away from this place and from the Ministry, there will be instructions left for you at dawn. My friends will help you if you’ll let them. There are communities out there, overseas, who don’t deal in death. Those of you who carry wands,” Remus pointed his wand away from Greyback, casting a scanning charm on the field, “they are buried in the North-West corner. Society stole your freedom to choose and this place tricked you into believing you had only one option - but I’m giving you the power to make a real decision right now. Take your freedom. Take it for yourself, because no one will give it to you.”

“Wand down, traitor!”

It was Silver. Greyback must have freed her from her bonds because she held the final portkey - the carving knife - against a struggling Cariad’s exposed neck.

“Wand down. Or I cut your little friend’s throat,” she said, breathing hard.

Remus hesitated for a split second and Silver let her knife saw into the top layer of Cariad’s skin, blood oozing in thick droplets as Cariad gasped and pleaded. Remus chose a third option: he levitated the knife out of Silver’s hand, too fast for her to react, slicing the tip of a finger clean off. But before his _Reducto_ could explode the portkey, Greyback summoned it. It soared into his hand and Remus saw the bottle that had held his Wolfsbane Potion drop, emptied, to the ground. Silver, clutching her bleeding hand, and Turnskin, freed too, leapt to their master's side and all three werewolves vanished.

_A patronus. I have to send a patronus._

The moon was close, so close. Remus felt its darkness begin to swallow up his thoughts, making them wild, confused. Something closed around his ankle and tugged. Remus fell hard and felt himself dragged off the platform, down into the dust.

“You lied to me, I’ll kill you - I’LL KILL YOU!”

“Jem…no…listen to me…”

But everything became a chaos of arms, fists, hate-filled eyes as Jem and the other chosen werewolves engulfed him. Remus writhed, refusing to surrender his wand. He wouldn’t die like this: not lying on his back, kicked into pulp; not when he still had lives to save. Remus ripped his arm free and brought it down in an arc, expelling a hot force of air to fling his attackers off him and then, summoning a strength he wasn’t sure he possessed, held the only place in the world he could flee to in his mind. Wind rushed around him and he felt his cracked rib push suffocatingly against his lungs as he span. He emerged lying on his front, trembling, his face pressed against damp moorland. It was only when he began to crawl - entwining his fingers in the mossy ground, pulling himself towards the door of the windowless hut he’d built for himself so long ago - that he realized he’d left part of himself behind. Blood gushed from his shoulder, staining the grass around him, and flesh hung in ribbons from his bicep. But he didn’t stop until his belly slid onto the cold floor of the hut and his quivering fingers slid the charmed bolt shut.

“ _Expecto…patronum_ …”, he croaked, wand loose in his hand, resting in an expanding puddle of blood.

Tiny wisps of silver blossomed from his wand and died.“… _all your might, on a single, very happy memory_ …”, he heard a hoarse voice say calmly, from very far away, and then a different voice - soft and close - “ _there are sparks in your hair_ ” and he felt an electric charge as fingers brushed the back of his neck and he saw eyes of such a dark blue; so beautiful he wanted to fall into them.

“ _Expecto_ … _patronum_ …”

The shaking had begun, his bones rattled against the hard stone floor, and he couldn’t see: his grey irises were expanding, becoming globes of yellow. But he felt the patronus take form in the room with him: his hope above hope, his courage and comfort.

“Occamies…in flight,” knives were twisting in his joints, the bones snapping, the ligaments tearing asunder, “Richmond Park,” his muscles were ripping like stitches being pulled apart, “Golp…wedding,” his voice was becoming unrecognisable, monstrous in its keening “three werewolves…not me”.

Then all became agony and Remus was gone.


	10. Take Your Freedom, Part 2

**Chapter 10: Take Your Freedom, Part 2**

“The way I see it, if Fudge hadn’t spaffed all the Ministry’s cash on those stupid soirees he used to throw, we’d have more now to spend on defence. Mad Eye told me that back in the day they had seventy working Aurors. _Seventy_. We’re a proper skeleton crew compared to that.”

“Right…yeah…”

“So whenever anything big goes down, like tonight, we end up short-staffed.”

“Uh-huh,” said Finlay, his jaw clicking as he yawned.

They were wading through the meadow grass of Hognose Hill, pushing tall daisy heads apart as they walked: Tonks surveying the streets of Hogsmeade village’s east side, Finlay its west, through floating binocular orbs at the ends of their wands.

“When Dawlish and Proudfoot get back - _ouch_ , ” Tonks said, pulling her foot out of the grassy depths of a rabbit hole, “they’ll lord it over us, sure as eggs. Such a _glamorous_ evening, such an _honour_ to provide protection for the muggle royals - ”

Finlay elbowed her.

“What’s that?” He asked, pointing down the hill.

Tonks cocked her head. There was a silver-edged shape, almost translucent in the fiery light of the sunset, bouncing towards them. She immediately thought of Aberforth’s goat, but then realized the lolloping gait wasn’t quite right, nor were the ears which stuck up from its head in comically large ovals. A surge of joy, like a star exploding in her stomach, took her breath away.

“Hello,” she whispered.

“What’s going on? Who does it belong to?”

But Tonks could barely hear Finlay’s questions. She knelt in the long grass and stretched her hand out to the patronus, to the lost part of herself that had returned, this beacon from a happier past, as if it were possible to feel its weightless, ghostly light against her skin. But then it began to speak to her. The voice was familiar, but terrible: a guttural staccato, choked with unmistakeable pain.

“Occamies…in flight…Richmond Park…Golp…wedding…three werewolves…not me”.

For a split second, as the rays of the sun collided with the horizon and the sky darkened, the patronus shone bright enough to see the shimmer on its whiskers, but then…it began to change. As if shrivelling from within, its skeleton bent inward and twisted. The white smoke darkened to a dirty grey and a long, thin face emerged: looming, leering at Tonks, its stare bottomless, its will to consume endless. She scrambled to her feet, ankle bones bumping together, heart racing. Finlay swore loudly, but by the time he’d drawn his wand the apparition had vanished.

“Feck me, what was that?” Finlay demanded, looking wildly at Tonks.

“Golp’s the Head of the Werewolf Capture Unit. He’s having a wedding in Richmond Park and three werewolves are going to attack it. I dunno what the first bit means, but…”

Tonks recalled the jack rabbit and used the happiness to summon her own white wolf. She bent to whisper to it, ignoring Finlay goggling at her.

“Mad Eye, Remus sent me a message. I’m guessing it’s some kind of code - ‘Occamies in flight’ - and he said there’s an attack happening on a wedding in Richmond Park. I’m going to go stop it. The Aurors’ll back me up.”

“Hold on, I didn’t even know messages could be sent like that. And whose voice was that just now? And what - ” Finlay’s voice dropped to a flat monotone as he realized, “you’re still working for Dumbledore, aren’t you?”

“Not important. We have to stop this attack. You alert Headquarters. I’m going to the wedding.”

“You can’t go alone! Have you even faced werewolves before, Tonks? Loads of spells don’t work on them, they’re so strong, they - ”

“Can’t fly though, can they? _Accio_ Comet.”

A distant smash of glass from the depths of Hogsmeade and soon Tonks’ broomstick was shooting towards them. She seized it, swung her leg over to mount it and pointed its nose to the sky.

“An Auror has to stay in Hogsmeade and that’s you. Just call me some back-up, okay?”

“I’ll try but they’re all faffing about in Windsor, aren’t they? Should be the Capture Squad, not us, who deals with this sort of thing anyway!”

“The Capture Squad will be _at_ the wedding.”

“Just stop and think a minute, Tonks, you could get bitten or - ”

But there was no time to think. Tonks bent her knees, pressed down into her heels and sprang. The broom rocketed up through the still-warm air. When she was high enough, she drew her wand and vanished out of Hogsmeade. She travelled south in a crush of air, gripping the broom tight between her knees and popped out above the dark green expanse of the park. She immediately span in circles, eyes hunting for movement below: she could see black clusters of trees, cantering deer spooked by her apparition and, two hundred metres ahead, a gargantuan white wedding tent from which she could hear the burr of a saxophone and a thumping drum beat. She pushed on towards it, leaning down to scan the ground until she spotted them: three, just as Remus had said, one in the lead, paws eating up the ground as it sprinted for its prey, and two more racing close behind it.

Tonks accelerated to the very limit of her Comet’s ability, tears eking out of her eyes from the wind resistance, and overtook them. She pulled up at the tent’s crown and swirled her arm in a lassoing motion: sunset-bright flames cascaded from her wand and ringed the tent with a storm of fire. Then she flew down until she could touch the billowing material with her wand and transfigured the tent into stone. She knew the walls of fire and rock wouldn’t hold the werewolves forever, but they could give her the time she needed to rescue the oblivious revellers within.

Blasting a hole in the tent’s peak, Tonks plunged down into the wedding. Inside the air was hot; humid and sticky with the smell of bodies and beer. Tonks fluffed her landing and toppled over on one ankle, grabbing a handful of someone’s pink tulle dress for balance and upsetting a fizzing glass of champagne which burst across the dance floor. Unbothered by the gasps of surprise and the screech of feedback as the band stopped, Tonks assessed the situation. There were at least a hundred people in the tent. She clocked the cables that connected the bands’ instruments; the candles resting on tables instead of floating; the distinct lack of literal fairy lights. It could only mean one thing. Muggles. Golp was marrying a muggleborn: Greyback and the Death Eaters’ hatreds had combined to form the perfect target.

“Hey, that was so cool…Did Chloe hire you?”

A sweaty muggle with an open-shirt and a bowtie akimbo around his neck, teetered towards her but before Tonks could palm him off, Henry Golp shoved him aside.

“Are you insane? This is my wedding! How _dare_ you!”

Golp’s nostrils were flaring, strands of carefully-styled hair popping out of place. His new wife, clad in an avalanche of white lace, was at his side.

“My family are muggles! Whoever you are, you’re breaking the Statute of Secrecy!”

“I’m an Auror, I have that right. So point that somewhere else,” Tonks gestured to the wand that Golp had slid out of his satin waistcoat, “and listen to me, we don’t have much time. There are three transformed werewolves outside. I’ve held them off for now, but we’ve got to get everyone out of here before we all become dinner.”

They gaped at her, the blood draining from their faces.

“W-we don’t have the right equipment to hold the beasts, we’re not prepared!” he said, breathless.

“How can this be happening?” Said the bride who, Tonks noticed, was holding the hand of a little girl half-burrowed into the folds of her dress. “I - I don’t understand!”

But there was no time to explain. Tonks vaulted up onto the stage, bumping the bewildered singer out of the way.

“Alright, listen up. I’m an Auror and I need everyone to evacuate right now. This wedding is under attack. I need every witch or wizard to grab as many muggles as you can and apparate out. We’ll sort out memory charms when everyone is safe. If any of you have experience restraining werewolves, I want you to come back. Got it? Okay, let’s get going, NOW.”

There was an odd ripple of noise that combined nervous laughter from the muggles and gasps of horror from the magical. The latter group - which, Tonks was dismayed to see, formed the minority - began drawing wands. Soon confused muggles were being grabbed around the waist and guests began disappearing all across the tent, igniting a chorus of screams from those left behind. Tonks jumped down off the stage and launched herself into the chaos: repeating her instructions, picking up children and shoving them into the arms of adults, pairing panicking muggles with wand-carriers. The sound of scratching claws against stone was like a ticking clock and every _crack_ of disapparition gave Tonks a jolt of relief. It didn’t take long for the tent to empty, until only she and the bride and groom were left. Tonks ran to them, leaping over upturned chairs, skidding on puddles and deflated balloon skins.

“Where’s your team? They should be coming back!”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” said Golp, wiping sweat with his cuff. “Where’s Lucy? Our daughter. She was here, right here, and then…”

He and his wife were pouring over the detritus of the party, frantic, forgetting their wands, calling their daughter’s name over and over. Tonks flipped a row of tables to reveal the child crouched beneath one of them, hiding her face in the flowery pattern of her dress. Her mother swept her up in her arms and raised her wand to apparate. Golp ran to join them, winding his arm tightly around them both.

“I can’t round them up alone, you have to come back,” Tonks said, looking directly at Golp. “They’ll go for the city otherwise!”

He didn’t reply. The three forms flickered, but remained in place. The bride tried again, bringing her wand down in a hard slash, but again nothing.

“Oh bugger,” said Tonks.

Before she could come up with a new plan, the walls of the tent crumbled in a deafening roar of rubble, blinding them in choking dust. Tonks crouched, protecting her head with her arms as broken rock thundered down from what had been the tent’s roof. She reached out for her three charges, eyes stinging from the thick powdery air, and tugged them towards her.

“My broom!” She said, spluttering out the words. “Get on! Quick!”

Bent-backed, they dragged themselves onto the broom: the child between Golp and Tonks, the bride wedged between Tonks’ arms. Tonks had to leap with all her strength to get the broom off the ground and it rose painfully slowly. Something enormous burst out of the dust cloud and leapt for them: its silver fur crusted with debris, its eyes a bright, sickening yellow, its canines as long and thick as tusks. Razor-sharp claws scraped the broomstick, centimetres from Tonks’ fingers, and they swung violently to one side - but Tonks wouldn’t let the creature bring them down. With every ounce of skill she possessed, she swerved and the werewolf fell crashing down into a mess of broken electrical cables. Tonks flew higher and blasted water down onto the werewolf. Its piercing howl followed them as they rose out of the fog into the moonlight above. But they weren’t alone.

“Hold tight!”

A volley of stunners cut the air around them with jets of red light and Tonks had to roll to avoid them, panting with the effort of forcing the overloaded broom to obey. A glint of moonlight on a burnished silver mask caught her eye and finally she saw her opponent. Pointing her wand through the ivory pleats of the wedding dress, Tonks shot a sightless curse at them. The Death Eater wobbled, almost losing their seat, and scrabbled under their mask; panic making them forget the countercurse, just as Tonks had hoped. She cast _geminio_ on her broom to create a second one which she held still alongside them.

“Climb on,” she yelled at her passengers. “It’s just a clone so it won’t work for long, but fly as fast as you can until you get out of the anti-apparition zone then get the hell out of here. I’ll cover you.”

Tonks glanced back at the still-struggling Death Eater, trying to keep the two brooms steady as the family crossed over.

“You - you saved our lives,” said Golp, hugging his daughter close as his wife took control of the new broom. “How can I ever thank you?”

“Resign.”

“W-what?”

“You heard. Now let’s go.”

Tonks leant forward and the two brooms sped off together. She looked back just in time to see the Death Eater, now with sight restored, in pursuit. She conjured a moving shield, but when the tell-tale green light flashed she had to dive, dragging the family’s broom down with her at sickening speed, her arm almost popping out of its socket. Gritting her teeth with the effort, she looked back to witness more bad news: the Death Eater was pulling up the left sleeve of their robe, not to call for their master, but to surely summon back-up. Tonks did the only thing she could think to do.

“ _Diffindo_!”

The Death Eater’s arm, severed at the elbow, dropped.

“Go, go, go!” She shouted, pushing the other broom away from her.

Like a popped cork, the bride and groom flew off into the distance. Tonks watched as they stopped, embraced each other with the child wedged tight between them, and were gone. Then she turned back: it was time to finish this. The Death Eater was wheeling in shock, their halved arm spurting blood. There was a sickening sight on the ground below: the werewolves had emerged from the wreckage of the tent and two of them were fighting over the body part. Tonks heard the crunching of bone and soon it was reduced to nothing more than bloody chunks. But the third werewolf wasn’t feeding. It was looking straight up at Tonks, the intelligence in its predator’s eyes unmistakably human.

“ _Depulso_!”

The spell hit her full in the chest and it was all Tonks could do to keep hold of her broom as she pinwheeled, head over feet. Partway through a rotation, she managed to yell:

“ _Incarcerous_!”

It hit the Death Eater, but sharp spikes erupted from their robes, spreading across their chest and snapping the ropes. Their arm was still bleeding and when they tried to staunch it, Tonks seized the opportunity to conjure a hood and force it down over their eyes, but it quickly dissolved into vapour and the Death Eater sent a _crucio_ her way. She dodged it, but it skimmed her cheek; passing so close that she could feel its staticky heat. She pushed her protesting broom on, circling the Death Eater in ever-smaller rings, moving too fast for a curse to find her, wrapping her adversary in a purple string the consistency of steel. The Death Eater writhed, caught fast, and Tonks thought she’d succeeded until the string fractured with an ear-splitting _twang_. With their remaining wand arm, the Death Eater had conjured a snake that had bitten straight through the binding - but, Tonks blinked, it wasn’t a snake at all: it was a shape-shifting, amorphous black mass, now changing from a snake into a bundle of seven clawing arms which came flying towards her. Tonks’ _impedimenta_ had no effect, she swerved to the left and its demonic grip closed only on a hunk of her hair, tearing it out at the roots, before a _confringo_ at close range exploded the thing to ribbons.

Tonks tried engulfing her foe in water, Mad Eye’s unwritten rule - capture, not kill - repeating itself in her head, but now unblockable killing curses were coming her way again. As she corkscrewed to avoid two, three, four strobes of green light, she saw the werewolves stalking below, waiting for one of them to fall. Tonks aimed a freezing charm at the Death Eater’s wand arm, but it fell short and hit their broomstick instead, arresting its motion. The Death Eater kept going, then tipped forward, then plummeted. Tonks tried to freeze them in mid-fall, but her charm collided with their own final, desperate curse and both spells bounded off course: Tonks’ disappearing into the night, the Death Eater’s striking the tail of her broomstick.

Everything seemed to happen in slow-motion. Tonks heard the Death Eater’s body thwack against the ground; heard the victorious howls of the werewolves as their paws pinned their victim down; heard jaws clamp on flesh and muscles rip, and at the same moment felt her broom turn to splinters beneath her hands. Then she too was falling: the night air rushing in her ears, her gut turning to liquid, her robes flapping. She twisted and saw the largest werewolf pelting to the spot she was about to strike, but Tonks wouldn’t die like this: somehow, her wand still in her grip, she cast a charm on the grass and as soon as her body hit the ground she was propelled back up into the sky like a pebble from a slingshot.

The werewolf leapt, eager to tear her down, but her speed was too immense. Its teeth snapped inches away from her flailing arm and one single knife-like claw grazed her wrist, slashing the skin in a clean line. But nothing could slow her: she was soaring higher even than she’d flown, the force of the bounce sending her gliding high in a huge arc shape. She stared at the full moon which hung before her - its white mottled surface, its pure and startling roundness - then, by its light, she saw figures on brooms approaching. The Aurors were coming.

Tonks crested the peak of her arc and began to descend, with no choice but to submit to the fall. She felt weightless, dizzy, oddly free. She remembered the jack rabbit and the same joy she’d felt when first clapping eyes on it returned to her. She felt loved: wholly, unceasingly, loved. Then there was a crush of leaves and branches, her head struck a tree trunk and she knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s the end of the mid-story finale! Thank you for reading and please stay safe out there - big love to all the key workers and quarantiners. xx


	11. Ambush

**Chapter 11: Ambush**

A smell - tangy, medicinal, herby - began to coax Remus out of the blank absence he’d fallen into. It was pungent, laden with the memory of somewhere familiar: he was young and small; he was in a light-filled ward; he was missing the morning’s lessons. Everything that touched him felt so very clean and a feathery weight pressed him meltingly down into a soft mattress. Still unseeing, he managed to move a wrist and dangle it free, feeling a pleasant coolness on his skin. He recognised the voice that spoke to him before he recognised the meaning of their words.

“Lie still now, lie still.”

Firm hands grasped his wrist and slipped it snugly back into the airless warmth of the bed.

“You’ll feel terribly groggy, but it can’t be helped.”

“Where…what…?”

“Don’t trouble yourself, for goodness sake. You’re safe.”

With every blink, the ceiling above him became a little clearer. Low wooden beams, cobwebby and worm-holed, hung overhead. Below them was something impossible: the peak of a white veil and two blue almond-shaped eyes, crinkled at the edges.

“Madam Pomfrey?” He croaked in disbelief.

“I thought we agreed long ago that you could call me Poppy, Remus.”

“But this….isn’t Hogwarts…”

“Of course it isn’t! But you’re the only former student for whom I could ever be induced to leave my post. Dumbledore requested my services and I obliged.”

Remus found strength enough in his arms to ease himself up on his elbows. He was in his sagging old single bed, wearing a threadbare set of pyjamas, looking around at his dusty one room cottage. Images nagged at him, floated into his thoughts and back out again before his muddy brain could decipher them: drops of blood on wood, tunnels of smoke, a tangle of bodies blocking out the sky.

“What happened?”

“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey repeated, her nostrils flaring, “I daresay a better question would be what _didn’t_ happen? When Dumbledore summoned me, I was greeted with two cracked ribs, a punctured lung, a slash so deep it severed the ligaments in your left wrist, a bleeding hole in your right thigh, one of the worst splinches I’ve ever had the misfortune to treat - not to mention catastrophic blood loss, malnourishment and a level of exhaustion that could have killed you in itself! It’s a wonder you lived to see the dawn.”

It all came back to him then and adrenaline stormed through his system.

“Did the Order get my message? Did they stop the attack?”

“Sit back!”

Madam Pomfrey leant forward and tried to push him back down but Remus was stiff and unrelenting.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Albus did not see fit to endow me with all the facts, but I can tell you that this attack, whatever it was, was stopped. There were no lives lost and no lycanthropy infections. Now _please_ , think of your recovery and - ”

“But what time is it?” Remus demanded, looking wildly around, “Did Mad Eye reach the camp at dawn? Perhaps I can still there get there in time to help - ”

“Sit. Back.”

The blankets instantly tightened around his legs, pinning him in place.

“Poppy, I must - ”

“The full moon was four days ago.”

Remus went limp.

“Four days?”

“Yes. You’ve been kept in a healing sleep. It was touch and go at first, you know. I’ve been flooing back to check on you every few hours and I haven’t allowed a single visitor past that door, not even Alastor Moody.”

“I must see him. I’m sorry Poppy, but I insist.”

“That man has never given convalescence its proper respect but I suppose my authority is limited outside of my own wing.”

Shaking her head, she walked the two paces to Remus’ desk and plucked up a piece of parchment. After writing a highly looped note, she placed it into the fireplace where it was sucked up in a fizzle of green flame. Remus looked down at his hands: they were steady despite his racing heart. On the windowsill beside him, he saw the pot of acrid-smelling wound ointment that had guided him back to consciousness and picked it up. It was Madam Pomfrey’s own recipe, he knew, refined over the many years of caring for his self-inficted wounds. He brought it to his face. It was like inhaling the past: contained within it were the strong cloisturing walls of Hogwarts; the sight of a pile of textbooks on a bedside table; the sound of a curtain being ripped aside to reveal three grinning faces.

“Well,” she said, straightening up, “it’s time for the Order of the Phoenix to take over, if they’re so sure they know what’s best for you.”

As Remus looked up at her, he was overcome by a thankfulness that sank to his very bones. His constant carer, if Madam Pomfrey had ever felt upset or put-upon by being given the charge of a dark creature for the seven years of his schooling, she had never once shown it. He wasn’t sure he should still be alive, but he couldn’t deny how good it felt to speak to someone as Remus Lupin again.

“Thank you. For everything. In truth, I never expected to survive the year.”

“Well now, that was foolish. You have far too many friends for that to have ever been likely.”

——-

Remus did not wish to hold his meeting with Mad Eye from a sickbed. When Madam Pomfrey left, he rose and dressed. He removed his straggly beard, cut his hair to its old length and shed every last vestige of Alban; that insubstantial stranger. As he moved around the room and tentatively felt over the ridges and bumps of his bandaged body, he realized that - though he was thinner than he’d ever been - he felt stronger than he had in months. Sleeping through the worst of his post-moon sickness whilst a steady diet of nourishment potions travelled through his veins meant he was not only alive, but as healthy as it was possible for him to be. But, Remus thought as he remembered the tears on Jem’s cheeks, the blood dripping over the knife at Cariad’s throat, the flash of triumph in Greyback’s eyes as he’d seized the final portkey - where was the justice in that?

“In one piece, Lupin?”

Mad Eye’s magical eye circled in the direction of Remus’ torso as if inspecting the progress of his internal injuries.

“Somehow,” said Remus, giving Mad Eye a quick handshake, “but what happened, Alastor? Poppy told me that the attack was thwarted, that there were no deaths, no infections, but - ”

“There was one death but no one will shed a tear over it. Rabastan Lestrange. Nothing but bloody bits and a stain on the grass left of him.”

Remus had to grip the brass bedknob as nausea rose in his empty stomach.

“But the innocents? They were all evacuated?”

Mad Eye nodded, his eye whizzing.

“Yes - that is, if you can call the Head of the Werewolf Capture Unit an ‘innocent’. It’s quite a story.”

“What of the three werewolves?”

“Two were captured. They’re in Ministry custody now, destined for Azkaban. But Greyback got away.”

“He was wolfsbaned,” Remus said bitterly, his knuckles turning white, “he had his mind to help him escape.”

“He’ll have Voldemort to reckon with now. I don’t expect his master will be best pleased after this cock-up.”

“And what about the camp?”

“We followed the plan to the letter. Hestia and I flew to the location at dawn, shattered the protection dome and threw down the portkeys for the border. Charlie Weasley was ready on stand-by with the supplies and instructions on the other side.”

“How many?” Remus whispered, though he dreaded the answer, “How many chose to go?”

“Forty by my count, give or take.”

He let out a breath. Forty. Forty chose to heed his words and take a leap of faith for a better life. Remus let go of the bed and sat down at his kitchen table, steepling his fingers on his chin. It was more than he’d allowed himself to hope for, but fewer than he could celebrate.

“Did Charlie get any names?”

“No. Not a friendly bunch, they took the food, the cash, the warm clothes, the identification documents, then they were ready to get the hell out of the company of a non-werewolf. But they’re out of the Death Eaters’ clutches. That’s what counts.”

Had Cariad been among them? Remus had to hope so. He wanted to think of her, no longer frightened, choosing to travel onwards towards the friendship and acceptance she craved, that ‘Alban’ had never been able to give her.

“About thirty went their own way,” Mad Eye continued, “dragged themselves off into the trees. A motley crew stayed back to hurl foul insults at us - stones too, the ones who had strength enough - they weren’t interested in reason.”

Remus didn’t want to ask whether there had been a wild-eyed youth among them and he didn’t need to. He knew Jem was lost: all the potential of his young life likely to be wasted in the service of those who believed he was worth less than dirt. Of all his many failures as a spy, this was the worst. Mad Eye sank into the chair opposite Remus.

“You couldn’t have done more, lad. You were never going to win them all.”

“I didn’t win any,” Remus said, shaking his head, “the Order hasn’t gained a single new recruit. My position was on a constant knife edge. My cover had been blown for months without my even realizing it. Greyback was playing with me.”

“What blew your cover? What happened at the end?”

How could Remus find the words to explain? The werewolves all waiting in lines…the sun creeping lower with every second…the way that Greyback had looked at him… _“I want to see how you react when you wake up with the blood of those who have oppressed you smeared across your skin; with their flesh still wedged between your teeth.”_ ….

“Prepare a report for our next meeting,” Mad Eye said abruptly.

Remus nodded, grateful.

“At least I was able to send the warning. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand how I had strength enough to cast that patronus. What happened when you arrived at the wedding?”

“I didn’t. Your warning got through alright, but not to me.”

“I…but…where else?”

Shame. It spread in trickles from Remus’ hair line all the way down to his feet as he realized: he hadn’t thought of Mad Eye at the last, not once. Every last remaining spark of will he had as his body transformed pivoted on his happiest memory; that was where the patronus had sprung from. The wolf must have sought out Tonks, pulling her into danger; exposing her to the very risk he had so desperately, so coldly, tried to protect her from.

“No need to look so goddamn shell-shocked, Lupin. It wasn’t anything Tonks couldn’t handle.”

Remus listened in silence as Mad Eye related the events of the full moon.

“It was never my intention to involve her,” he said at last, trying to keep his voice even, “Are you sure she’s alright? She wasn’t hurt in any way?”

“No Auror worth their salt comes out of a predicament like that without a mark, but she’s fighting fit.”

“Alastor,” he said, feeling his jaw stiffen, knowing the grizzled old auror’s definition of ‘fighting fit’ was not necessarily his own.

“A bump on the head, a bruise or two, a few scratches - but she’s already back on duty, chomping at the bit for more action.”

“I hope you know I would never have willingly put her in that much danger. Three werewolves, it was - ”

“She doesn’t need coddling,” said Mad Eye, his tone suddenly sharp.

“Of course not, but - ”

“No ‘but’, Lupin. I should know - I trained her up, didn’t I? She’s what an Auror should be. She gets the job done and she doesn’t flinch at the sight of the enemy. Every member of the Order of the Phoenix gets equal respect in battle - no distractions, no special treatment, no cotton wool. Do you understand me?”

Remus said nothing.

“She’s been promoted,” Mad Eye continued, his magical eye rolling back into his head, “Scrimgeour may not approve of her involvement with Dumbledore, but the facts are the facts. She single-handedly rescued an entire wedding party - muggles, children, the lot. Valour like that didn’t leave Scrimgeour with much choice.”

“No one could be more deserving.”

Mad Eye took a swig from his hipflask.

“Alastor,” said Remus, breaking the short silence that fell between them, “I’d like the Order to put me to use again. As soon as possible.”

“Is tonight soon enough for you?”

———

After Mad Eye had gone, Remus floated around the cottage like a ghost. Apart from a sheen of dust, everything was perfectly preserved. Every relic and memento of grief was unmoved and unchanged, as if they had only been waiting for his return. He ran a finger over the empty grindylow cages; made up the lonely bed in the corner; tucked in the chair Sirius had sat in when he invited him to move to Grimmauld Place. He found his savings in a drawer - all thirty sickles worth - and buttoned them into a robe pocket. His bookshelf was half empty - his favourites were sitting somewhere in the Order’s lost headquarters. Remus pulled the volumes out by the spine one by one, opening pages at random before returning them again. He had longed for books at the camp, for the sea of words and worlds they contained, but they held no comfort for him now. On discovering a boulder of chocolate and a bottle of butterbeer left by Madam Pomfrey, his stomach leapt with startling hunger and he seized them; closing his eyes as flavours that weren’t stew or white spirit erupted like fireworks on his palette. The warm, bubbly sweetness was intoxicating but when he reached for more he remembered, _“special, spoiled little pup - you feasted whilst the rest of our kind starved,”_ and he shut them both back in the cupboard.

Wandering outside, he sank against the wall of his cottage. It felt impossible that he was here, feeling the sun on his face. He curled his fingers around the springy grass and tried to breathe, tried to ground himself. The heather, soon to burst into its summer colours, rolled out ahead of him, dipping and rising as far as the eye could see. He imagined a figure walking towards him with bright hair dancing in the breeze. _You’re a fool,_ he told himself. _Your fantasies are killing you - and they almost killed her._ Every time he’d believed himself near death, his brain had beckoned her in. Now that he’d survived, the love would only torture him all the more. He wished he could hack it out of his chest, wished he could numb every nerve that cried out for her - how else was he to cope with his return to her orbit? All her ambitions were unfurling, the world was opening up to her, and the last thing she needed was him; a hovering spectre reminding her of her greatest mistake. He felt so proud of her.

With the nocturnal rhythms of the camp still drilled into him, Remus had to take to his bed for much of the afternoon. The solitude of the sheets were soothing at first - no cold pairs of feet bumping his, no elbow digging into his spine - but soon, just as he was drifting off, he felt the ache of loss. When he awoke, it was to find a letter from Bill Weasley:

_See you at eight-thirty outside the Hog’s Head._

——————-

The sign for the Hog’s Head creaked a little in the wind. Remus stood beneath it, shuffling his feet slightly, his nerves like shivering wings in his stomach. Bill was three minutes late. Every second that flitted past made Remus all the more uncomfortably aware that he was standing in the village Tonks now lived in. Every flash of neon colour - a pink hat worn by a passer-by, a rippling rainbow of sweets in a shop window - made him jerk round. Even the sight of the cobbles made him wonder how many times she’d twisted her ankle on this very street; the upper windows of the terraced cottages leading him to imagine the little home she must have created for herself…

“You alright?” Asked Bill, when he finally arrived, “We - I mean, _I_ was surprised when Mad Eye mentioned you were joining the watch over the castle tonight. Oh, before I forget - this is for you.”

Bill passed him a square piece of card bordered with a flowing pattern of silver.

_Arthur & Molly Weasley and Louis & Apolline Delacour request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of William Weasley & Fleur Delacour on the 1st of August at the Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, Devon, England._

Beneath the cursive message was a photograph of Bill and Fleur. They were embracing with yellow sand beneath their bare feet; he nuzzling the silver-blond hair above her ear, she giggling and popping a foot.

“Oh,” said Remus, swallowing an ‘are you sure?’, “thank you.”

Though he couldn’t bring himself to decline on the spot, Remus knew he couldn’t possibly attend. As a member of the Order of the Phoenix, Bill must simply have invited him out of courtesy. A wedding was no place for him, fresh as he was from a werewolf indoctrination camp, all the more so given that Tonks’ attendance was guaranteed. He and Bill weaved through the narrow streets of Hogsmeade - Remus asking him every question he could think of regarding Harry, the Weasleys and Fleur - and up the tree-lined path to the Hogwarts gate where a cheerful Hagrid waited to admit them. As soon as they entered the castle grounds, Remus felt relieved: they had passed out of the Hogsmeade Aurors’ likely patrol route. Inside Hogwarts, the corridors were empty; the students having retired to the common rooms at the approach of sunset. When they reached the top of the staircase leading to the first floor, Bill went right.

“We aren’t meeting at Minerva’s office?” Asked Remus, who had been expecting a left turn.

“Er, no….the briefing’s in the History of Magic classroom.”

Remus nodded absently. His mind, still turning over his predicament of renewed physical proximity to the rest of the Order, was distracted as he followed Bill into the room so he didn’t immediately notice that someone was already inside. It was only after he’d shut the door carefully behind him and turned to face the classroom, dim in the gloaming light of dusk, that he saw her. And then time broke open. Its linearity ruptured and Remus experienced everything - every explosion of joy, every swell of sorrow, every twist of self-loathing - he’d ever felt in her presence all at once. His eyes went wide. His hands went weak as jelly, limp and useless at the end of his wrists. His heart ached fit to stop.

“Erm, so the briefing’s in twenty minutes,” said Bill, with a rueful smile at Remus, “in McGonagall’s office.”

The door closed behind him with a shudder and they were left alone. Tonks wasn’t wearing her Auror robes, but purple ones slung lopsidedly over muggle clothes. She wore her hair in a way he’d never seen before: pale brown and tangled, it hung over her slightly protruding collarbones. She was utterly still except for her fists which bunched up her too-long sleeves. She stared at him. He would have hated it, being studied like a specimen on a slab, if he wasn’t entirely consumed with doing the exact same thing to her. He wanted the silence to stretch on forever. He didn’t want the inevitable pain that words would bring, he only wanted to bask in her pure, Tonksian aliveness. All the miles and months he’d forced between them had vanished and now here she was, so vividly present. Expressions chased themselves across her face, but not one of them was hatred or disgust or even anger. Her chin wobbled and she raised her hand to her face but, instead of tears, a sudden smile lit up her face. The sight of it was so beautiful that he couldn’t stop himself returning it.

“Wotcher.”

“Hello Tonks.”

She opened her mouth slightly, but no sound came. A single tear fell down her cheek and she batted it away with an odd gulp of a laugh.

“You know, I…I had this whole epic speech prepared in my head and now I can’t remember a single word of it like a total dingbat.”

Silence.

“Con - ”

“How are - ”

Silence again.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” Remus said, rushing to fill it; wanting to avoid her question about how he was, “Mad Eye told me.”

“Cheers, yeah,” said Tonks, with a slight squeak he’d never heard before, “Scrimgeour looked like he was live-swallowing a bumblebee when he awarded it, but hey - I’m a junior no more.”

Remus knew he should leave the room, but he couldn’t. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t. He wanted to drink her in. How could he have forgotten so many tiny, wonderful details about her face?

“I’m happy for you.”

“It was a team effort, mate - couldn’t have done it without you. You sounded the alarm. That can’t have been easy.”

“What you did was extraordinary but - and please don’t get me wrong - I would never have chosen to send that message directly to you if I’d been in my right mind. The code words were established with Mad Eye, you see. What happened is somewhat of a mystery to me.”

“I’ve got a theory.”

Something about her was starting to scare him: there was no trace of the cold righteous resentment his past treatment of her warranted, instead she seemed to almost vibrate with some barely suppressed energy.

“I never wanted to send you into danger of that magnitude and certainly not of that…particular kind.”

“Well, your patronus came and fetched me anyway - in all its corporeal glory.”

“Oh.”

Remus felt a twinge of humiliation. The thought of his corporeal patronus made him want to shrink away. Was she mocking him? No, not Tonks…surely she wouldn’t…she would never…

“It felt good to see my jack rabbit again.”

_Impossible._

“I - I don’t understand.”

“I was right,” she said and she was smiling again, wider this time, “Yours has changed too - a swap, a bloody beautiful swap.”

“Mine wouldn’t change. It’s just like my infection, they’re connected - ”

“No, they’re not! You’ve just been too afraid to look at it properly - it’s not a werewolf, it’s a true wolf, and it’s mine just as the rabbit is yours.”

“No…it’s not possible…”

“It’s totally possible and it absolutely happened - a jack rabbit, floppiting towards me with massive ears and not a wolfy feature in sight, speaking with your voice.”

Remus could hardly breathe. Could it be true? Could there really be a part of him, however deeply buried, that wasn’t infected? A tiny element of his soul that lived free, untouched by his curse? Tonks beamed as she saw the wonder spread over his face and Remus didn’t think he’d ever loved her as much as he did in that moment, but when she started towards him, her hands seeking his, he remembered the horrible truth of it: that he hadn’t truly lost the wolf, only given it away. Just as he’d unwittingly sent her to face Greyback, so too had he burdened her with a strange new patronus, stealing her own joyful essence for himself.

“I’ve been so excited to tell you, Remus. I - ”

He stepped back.

“It means nothing.”

Her smile died.

“It means _everything_ \- ”

“- no, Tonks - ”

“- it means you can’t lie to me anymore so don’t even try. Remus, look at me - ”

But he wouldn’t. It was like staring at the sun, the sight of her - the confirmation that after all this time, nothing had changed - would blind him to everything but his feelings and that was too dangerous.

“The months dragged on and on without you,” Tonks continued, her voice rising out of her control, “but I never gave up hope. I kept waiting for you even when it felt like more waiting would kill me. And now you’re _back_ \- ”

“It makes no difference where I am - near or far it’s still wrong, utterly wrong, Tonks. You’ve clung onto a fantasy, but I - _me_ \- the real thing standing before you now is a poor imitation of who you say you’ve been faithful to. My poverty hasn’t changed, nor has my age or my condition - these things are immutable.”

“I don’t care about those things!”

“I don’t understand you. You’re far from ignorant, you’ve seen with your own eyes the kind of monster I turn into. I’ve told you time and time again that it’s sheer madness to want a relationship with me and - ”

“So you’re calling me crazy? Is that what you reckon I am?”

“I don’t know what you are.”

“Maybe not, but you love me anyway.”

She might as well have slapped him. He wished she _had_ slapped him: anything, _anything_ would have been better than hearing that. He’d rather she’d gouged her fingers into his chest and squeezed his heart until it burst. She was furious, defiant, the most beautiful person he’d ever seen, and he had to get away from her.

“That’s enough. I will not have this discussion with you.”

He turned and wrenched the door open, striding out into the corridor.

“Don’t you dare chicken out now. Remus!”

Tonks followed him, pushing the door so hard it crashed against the wall. She caught up with him and grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her. Her robe sleeves slid up her wrists and Remus saw a bandage covering one of her forearms.

“What is that?”

She let go immediately and tugged her sleeve back down.

“Just a scratch,” she said then, with an infuriated sigh, “when I fell off my broom, the wolfsbaned werewolf came straight for me. But it is just a scratch - no teeth came anywhere near me, I swear.”

“Greyback. It was him. He did this to you.”

“It’s not a big deal. I don’t even need this stupid thing,” Tonks ripped the bandage off and let it fall to the flagstones at their feet, “I’m from the Mad Eye Moody school of hard knocks, remember? There’s nothing wrong with a few scars. Something we’ve got in common now, right?”

Remus looked down at the narrow red line on her wrist. It wasn’t deep, but it was a pollution all the same: her precious skin torn by the most sickening example of his kind. And it was he who had put her in harm’s way.

“You want to claim my patronus as proof for your argument? Well, here’s the proof for mine,” he said, barely recognising the hiss in his voice, “right here, in flesh and blood - not air.”

He turned away from her shining eyes and continued down the corridor to the stairs.

“Nothing’s so strong as a patronus, you know that better than anyone,” she called after him.

He stopped, but didn’t turn. She understood nothing. There was something far stronger than a patronus. What patronus had ever returned his friends or his mother to him? What patronus could restore Tonks to the world if she had her throat ripped out next time?

“Get rid of it. You don’t want his mark on you, believe me. Morph it away.”

“Morph it away?” Tonks said slowly, the anger dropping from her voice until it was almost a whisper, “don’t you know? Can’t you _tell_?”

He looked slowly back over his shoulder and realized what had happened; what Molly had tried to tell him at Christmas; the true scale of the damage he had wrought upon her from the moment he had allowed their lips to touch that New Year’s night on the roof of Grimmauld Place; the true catastrophe of his love. All he had wanted was for her to be happy and she wasn’t. She wasn’t even well. She’d been drained of some essential spark and it was all his fault. He felt his self-control begin to slip away like water through his hands: he wanted to give in, he wanted to fall to his knees but, no, it was impossible; giving in to her would be to betray all his better instincts, to betray her to a half-life. He had to leave. Again. It was the only way. He would speak to Dumbledore first thing in the morning: surely there was somewhere he could go, something he could do, some way he could serve the Order and escape this nightmare. Dumbledore would help him, would save him, would save them both.

“Ah, Remus. I’m glad you’ve come. Albus has just left.”

Minerva McGonagall was sweeping up the stairs, her emerald cloak stroking the marble.

“And Auror Tonks too. Good evening to you both.”

She stopped at the top of the steps, one teacherly eyebrow poised in inquiry.

“I believe Bill Weasley is waiting for us in my office. I hope I’m not…interrupting anything?”

“No,” said Remus, “we’re ready.”


	12. Instant Darkness

**Chapter 12: Instant Darkness**

Bill elbowed her in the ribs. Tonks looked at him, unsmiling, her head rolling as if pulled by a string.

“What?” She mouthed.

McGonagall walked two paces in front of them, the peak of her emerald hat leading their patrol through Hogwarts’ shadow-drenched seventh floor - and Remus walked beside her. Bill whispered into his palm then curled his hand around the invisible words and passed them to Tonks. Cupping her hand around her ear, she heard Bill’s voice:

“How’d it go?”

A scream would be a fitting answer - a scream that rent her throat raw, bounced off the breast-plates of the suits of armour and rattled through the castle like a tornado - but Tonks only shook her head and spoke quickly into her fist:

“Tits-up.”

Bill winced and rubbed the back of his head, dislodging some strands of fiery hair from his bun.

“The look on his face when he saw you though…” said his next hand-held message, “…I thought he was going to sweep you off your feet the second I left.”

The look on Remus’ face. Tonks could never forget it: that rare unguarded, indefinable expression; a mask peeled away; ecstasy and agony, both at once. He’d looked at her that way before. When, in the library of Grimmauld Place, she’d told him how much she wanted him. He’d worn that look just before he strode across the room to kiss her with a passion that addicted her instantly; when they were on the cusp of a gasping-for-air, core-shuddering first night together; when she’d thought it could all be simple. He hadn’t kissed her this time. Instead, he’d disorientated her with small talk and she’d responded with all the subtlety and sensitivity of a bludger to the nose. He walked silently ahead of her now and she watched him; watched the movement of his shoulder blades, their outline just visible under his robes; the new silver in his hair that she knew, though she hadn’t pulled it in so long, would be soft to the touch. She wondered whether he could feel her stare and, if he could, what it felt like: did it make the fine hair at the nape of his neck tingle, like the lightest of kisses, or did it prickle over his skin like sunburn?

Bill’s hand nudged hers as he passed her more words:

“Well, the quaffle’s on his side of the pitch now - it’s up to him to actually fight for you.”

_Oh Bill, you’re as naive as I used to be._

“I’m starting to think you’re the only one getting the fairytale ending, mate.”

Bill squeezed her shoulder.

“That’s every passageway leading in and out of the castle checked,” said McGonagall, coming to a halt, “unless, Remus, you are aware of any more?”

Remus turned, his eyes flicking momentarily towards where Bill’s arm retreated from around Tonks. McGonagall’s lips were slightly pursed as she looked at him. Remus’ resultant blush would once have made Tonks giggle, but nothing could dislodge her scowl.

“Those were all of the passageways I’m aware of, Minerva.”

“All of them then,” she replied, briskly.

“Shouldn’t we split up?” Asked Bill. “We’ll get more of the castle covered that way.”

“Professor Dumbledore’s instructions were to stay together. Just in case,” said McGonagall.

Tonks chewed the inside of her cheek. Something felt odd about this mission. Where had Dumbledore gone? It wasn’t exactly unusual for him to leave the castle, so what was it about tonight that made him think a guard was necessary? Remus was frowning too. But then they heard something: a distant noise, a rapid clattering growing louder. Footsteps.

“Get back! Against the wall,” said Remus.

They pressed themselves against the stone, wands raised. Seconds later, three figures careened around the corner. Bill reacted first, leaping out and catching two of them mid-run.

“ _Bill_?” Gasped Ginny.

“What are you doing here?” Said Ron.

“I could ask you two the same bloody question!”

“Professor McGonagall, Professor Lupin - thank goodness!” Cried Neville, his robes hanging off one shoulder.

The last time Tonks had seen Neville Longbottom, he’d been sheltering beneath the dais in the Hall of Prophecies; the night she’d crashed out and left Sirius to Bellatrix. Tonks didn’t believe in harbingers, but felt a little trickle inching down her spine.

“Why are you stampeding through the corridors when you should be in your dormitories?” Said McGonagall.

“Something’s happened,” said Ron, his complexion waxy pale beneath a smatter of freckles, “something bad. Harry told us to stand guard outside the Room of Requirement and we were but then Malfoy came out clutching this hand thing. He saw us and threw some powder into the air - I reckon it was Fred and George’s Instant Darkness Powder because everything went pitch black, no matter what we did - we had to grope our way out but - ”

“But there were other people! We could hear them, coming out of the Room of Requirement, shoving past us, so we knew we had to run and find someone,” said Ginny.

“Are you saying that there are intruders in the castle?” Said Remus.

“Death Eaters!” Said Ron.

“Which way did they go?” Said Tonks.

“In the opposite direction to us,” said Ginny. “The corridor that leads to the Astronomy Tower, I think.”

Tonks took off at a run, Remus at her elbow. Bill and McGonagall followed, attempting to exhort the students to return to Gryffindor Tower but, judging by the persistent squeak of three pairs of trainers behind them, having little effect. It wasn’t long before they heard the heavy tread of invaders up ahead and in their wake, Tonks’ stomach turned as she breathed it in, a salty metallic smell; alien and rancid.

“No,” Remus whispered, increasing his pace, “not him. Not here.”

Tonks glanced at him and what she saw made her pump her legs faster to match his new pace, squeezing her wand all the tighter. They rounded the next corner and there they were: a small crowd of black-clad Death Eaters, jostling together in the corridor and hardly bothering to lower their hoots and jeers of excitement. The Order of the Phoenix sent four _stupefys_ hurtling towards their backs and four Death Eaters - a heavy-set man; a woman who fell with a wheezing cry; a towering blond; and one wearing a hood - toppled, sending the rest stumbling over the corridor’s ornate rugs and bumping against the portrait-lined walls in shock. Tonks only had time enough to notice that the Malfoy boy was among them - rootling desperately in a small pouch at his hip - before an inky soup of blackness engulfed them all.

“Down!” She yelled instinctively, her belly smacking the floor.

It was so dark she couldn’t even see the grain of the stone against her face. She scrabbled around, finding a wrist (Remus?), feeling a reassuring tug on the back of her robes (Bill?), whilst hot invisible curses whizzed above their prone bodies. But as quickly as the darkness had fallen, it was lifted again. Peering up from the floor, she saw the Death Eaters hurrying away; those who had been stunned revived once more. Tonks pulled herself up and began pounding after them, gritting her teeth as she drew close enough for a decent aim. The Order’s second wave of spells found their marks again and sent another four - including young Malfoy - to the floor, this time stiff as boards. But the four who remained on their feet began firing unforgivables without hesitation, pausing only to perform counterjinxes on those paralysed. Shielding the teenagers with their bodies, Tonks, Remus, Bill and McGonagall had to wrench stones from the castle walls to block the assault; filling the corridor with pieces of flying sediment. A Death Eater with a brutal, square-jawed face yelled instructions and shoved Malfoy behind him. Tonks could just make out the platinum hair of her cousin disappearing around a distant corner before the Death Eaters conjured a wall-to-wall shield.

_They’re more interested in getting somewhere than fighting us. That can’t be good._

“Lupin!”

Through the shield, as if behind a wall of water, Tonks saw a hulking, monstrous mass of a man and her guts turned to liquid. The real, visceral sight of him was worse than any photograph she’d ever seen, but worse by far was the way he was looking at Remus. His head was slightly cocked and his mouth hung leeringly open.

“Back playing your traitorous little game, are you? Back pretending not to be the wolf you are?” His voice churned like silt at the back of his throat. “Well, at least you’ve given me the opportunity to meet your sweet _friends_.”

Remus lurched forward, but at the same moment one of the Death Eaters pulled Greyback roughly away from the shield wall.

“No time to chat, _werewolf_ ,” he said. “ _Aguamenti frigus_!”

An explosion of water blew the shield apart and barrelled over them. So cold it felt blisteringly hot, it squeezed the air from Tonks’ lungs. Her muscles seized up, but she forced her arms to whirl; trying to right herself as the force of the tide sent them all rolling backwards in a chaos of bubbles, spinning portraits and suspended pieces of armour. She opened her mouth, trying not to swallow, and made the shapes for the strongest drying incantation she could think of, praying the others were doing the same. The urge to gulp was overwhelming and her chest ached, but as the pain reached a pitch they all dropped, sprawling, onto the wet stone of the floor.

“That was…horrible…” gasped Ron, water streaming from his nose.

“I thought we were going to drown for sure,” said Neville, his teeth chattering so hard his whole head juddered.

McGonagall, dripping, got to her feet and waved her wand so that they dried off in an instant, their clothes enriched with warmth. They immediately restarted their chase.

“Get out of here,” said Tonks, straining her neck to look round at Ginny, “all of you - I’m serious.”

“We’re lucky! Harry gave us liquid luck!”

“I don’t care if Harry gave you nine lives, clear off back to the Common Room!” Bill shouted.

They caught up with the Death Eaters in the antechamber to the Astronomy Tower staircase.

_What the hell do they want with the Astronomy Tower?_

But there was no time to think. A bolt of lightning, forking out from McGonagall’s wand, struck the floor at the Death Eaters’ feet, blitzing the room in a shock of electric white. The ground beneath the Death Eaters quaked, causing some of them to keel to the floor. Seizing the advantage, Tonks, Bill and Remus sent a volley of paralysing jinxes, but once again their superior numbers triumphed: Greyback and the brutal faced Death Eater, too huge to be floored, sent a battery of _crucios_ \- one of which missed Neville by a fraction of an inch - in response, reviving their comrades whilst the Order dodged. The chamber was soon criss-crossed by jets of all colours and the air was alive with shrieks, grunts and crashes; the room wreathed in suffocating smoke. Tonks weaved and dived, avoiding jinxes that dropped from the ceiling like stalactites or seeped along the floor in poisonous puddles, all the while casting her best arsenal of offensive spells, no second to spare for conjuring a patronus to request back-up. When she pulled her stomach in and balanced on her toes to evade a _crucio_ that zipped past, her body collided with Remus’. He steadied her with one hand behind his back, touching her waist for a fraction of a second. But then the floor beneath them erupted and the stone turned into a pool of black sucking mud and the two of them sprang apart, each moving deeper into the fray.

There was a crackle of fire and the torches lit themselves, flew off the walls and glided into the faces of three Death Eaters who screamed as the unsmotherable flames seared their skin. Tonks looked round: it was Professor Flitwick, his wand dancing between his fingertips. His piping voice cut through the noise of the battle:

“Minerva, what is going on?”

“Snape! We need Professor Snape!”

But Tonks didn’t see what happened next - one of the two Death Eaters she’d been fighting peeled away and began forming the words for a killing curse aimed towards where Ron, Ginny and Neville stood firing their best Dumbledore’s Army jinxes. Tonks’ spell hurled him across the room with such force that his skull struck the ceiling, but in the same second she caught sight of another Death Eater - Gibbon, she remembered from studying photographs at an Order meeting - reach the door and disappear up the stairs to the tower.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

No sooner had she heard the words spoken from somewhere in the melee behind her, Tonks felt fingers gripping her clothing and she was flung hard into the wall. Her head bumped against the rock, her teeth rattled and stars exploded in her vision but she was alive enough to see the green torrent of light meant for her pass out of a nearby window.

“Sorry,” said Remus, out of breath, loosening his hold on her robes and already throwing himself back into the fight.

“You know I hate it when you apologise!” She shouted after him, raising her wand to battle on.

It was a pandemonium of smog and flashing light. With a surge of dread, Tonks caught sight of Ron, Ginny and Neville: still in the firing line and close to Thorfinn Rowle who was doling out killer spells as if it were a sick game; bouncing them around the teenagers’ heads but somehow never hitting them. _Molly’s going to murder me if I don’t get them out of here,_ Tonks thought. But the closer she struggled towards them, the deeper they seemed to melt into the hubbub. One of Rowle’s killing curses soared wildly off target: flying under McGonagall’s raised wand arm and over the head of Alecto Carrow, rushing towards the staircase where Remus was fighting. Encapsulated in one nanosecond of panic was every nightmare Tonks had ever had. She screamed, a wordless, senseless begging for his life - a moment of distraction that could have killed her - but the spell only ruffled the sleeve of Remus’ robe and caught Gibbon in the throat instead. He fell from the bottom step of the tower staircase and landed face-down. Remus glanced quickly at the dead man then, through the frenzy that divided them, directly into Tonks’ eyes.

_This is why you need to let us love each other, you bloody idiot, her thoughts railed at him. I’d prefer a double bed to a double coffin, but either’s better than dying like this; without hearing the truth from your mouth not just mine; without kissing you again first._

A whine, an eardrum-splitting skewer of tinnitus, bent Tonks double. She pressed a hand hard against her skull, as if trying to stop it cracking open, barely able to cast a defensive spell; but it didn’t matter because the Death Eater she was fighting was recoiling too. The room was strobing, intermittent between blinding light and total darkness; making the passing spells appear to fly in stop-motion, the people in the chamber to move in fitful jerks. In one illuminated half-second, Tonks saw something immense charging across the room - its teeth bared like daggers - and in the next she saw it collide with Bill, pinning him against the wall.

Tonks barely made it two metres before she was blocked by Yaxley and, at his heels, another Carrow: with static crackling in her ears and her heart pounding desperately in her throat, she duelled them both. Over their shoulders though, every flash of light revealed a new horror and Tonks, powerless, witnessed it all: Bill dropping his wand as teeth sank into the soft flesh above his clavicle; darkness; claw-like nails cleaving his skin from his hairline to his chest as if it were made of paper; darkness; strips of muscles being mangled out of his neck; darkness. And somehow despite the fracas of the battle, Tonks heard it too: the crunching, the wet ripping, the feasting. In less than a minute, Bill was on the floor and his legs were shaking. Greyback threw his head back, as if in ecstasy, and Tonks saw the blood dripping down off his chin.

She sobbed between every incantation, but wouldn’t let herself weaken; she refused to pay attention to the image that haunted the back of her mind (the stairs…the veil…the blank oblivion of failure); forced herself to ignore the whispering that accompanied it ( _we’re losing…Bill’s dead…we’re losing_ ). Malfoy, shielding his head, scuttled past her and disappeared up the tower stairs. She made to follow, but agony suddenly overcame her: she forgot where she was, who she was, only knowing pain; a pain that erupted from every cell, like boxes within boxes, endlessly unpacking themselves in the throes of a torment that felt endless.

“Take that!”

The pain stopped. Wrists trembling, Tonks lifted herself to see the Death Eater who had been torturing her lying stunned on the ground and Ginny skipping, impossibly light-footed, through an arrow-like barrage of jinxes. She hadn’t noticed her brother’s body, though the floor was smeared with his blood. Rejoining the fight, Tonks noticed that the Death Eaters’ numbers seemed fewer. Greyback was missing, so too were the squat twins.

“Snape!” Someone shouted.

And it was. Severus Snape swept through the battle as if he couldn’t even see it, his cloak billowing behind him and his face luminous in its pallor. He passed immediately over the threshold to the tower staircase and disappeared out of sight. Tonks saw Remus follow, but he was thrown backwards as soon as his foot touched the first step.

“They’ve blocked the stairs!” he shouted. “ _Reducto_! _Reducto_!”

The room started to rumble as the death curses continued to ricochet. There was a great cracking sound and the ceiling itself started to rain down upon them. Chunks of ancient rubble smashed against the floor, coating everything in a throat-lining dust. Coughing, Tonks stared at the staircase - had the ceiling collapse severed whatever enchantment barred the way? She, Remus and McGonagall ran for it at the same time - they had to help Snape, had to stop whatever it was the Death Eaters were doing up there - but before they could ascend, they met Snape returning. He was dragging Malfoy by the scruff of his robes and shouting something Tonks couldn’t hear. She stood back and they passed her, disappearing into the dust clouds. Before she could catch a breath, she became locked in a new confrontation with the returned Carrows: what they lacked in skill, they made up for in blunt persistence; they two hammers, she a nail.

“Hello pretty.”

A third figure loomed in the doorway. There were bloody strips of saliva hanging between his teeth. He laughed and the Carrows, keeping Tonks dancing to avoid their crucios, laughed too. She was cornered.

“I remember you,” said Greyback, drawing nearer; something insatiable, something depraved, in his look.

_I’ll kill you before you touch me_ , Tonks vowed, but it was another voice that spoke:

“ _Avada Kedavra_.”

Remus. His wand was perfectly steady as he pointed it at Greyback’s chest. But another wave of ceiling came crashing down, dividing them from the Death Eaters, and the curse only sank into the wreckage. Through a filthy pall of dust, Rowle’s green jets of death were still filling the chamber and Tonks leapt in front of him to put a stop to it. They were all fighting an opponent each now, ducking and firing, as relentless as their enemies, though the floor was slippery with the blood of one of their own. A jinx hit Rowle in the face and Tonks whirled around, unable to see who had fired it through the tumult. For the first time, she noticed Neville lying on the ground, ashen-faced and clutching his stomach.

“They’re retreating!” Shouted McGonagall.

Tonks blinked in confusion, but McGonagall was right: the chamber was emptying; the Death Eaters withdrawing at speed. Some set up barriers to block pursuit, but McGonagall shattered them and gave chase, though she must have known any hope of capture was in vain. A terrible screaming filled the room: Ron and Ginny had seen their brother’s body. Tonks leapt over a heap of broken ceiling and skidded on her knees to Bill’s side; her robes immediately becoming soaked in gore. Remus was kneeling there already, his hands stained crimson all the way up to his wrists and his face so bloodless it was close to green.

“He’s alive,” he said.

Tonks’ brain was a hot tangle of shock but, somehow, her voice didn’t tremble.

“You two help Neville,” she said to Ron and Ginny. “Me and Remus’ll get Bill to Madam Pomfrey. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Together, Remus and Tonks floated Bill onto an invisible stretcher. As they ran for the Hospital Wing, his long hair, heavy and sodden, came loose and streamed out behind them in a blaze of red.


	13. Phoenix Rising

**Chapter 13: Phoenix Rising**

“That doesn’t make a jot of sense, Remus.”

Madam Pomfrey uttered the words in one breath, without looking at him. Bill was laid out, his head lolling back, the apple of his throat moving up and down as a queue of blood-replenishment potions emptied themselves one by one through a funnel into his stomach. Madam Pomfrey was attempting to pack his wounds with enchanted gauze, but the blood loss continued unabated, spreading in plumes across the white sheets, the purple mesh only oozing out again.

“It was a werewolf, Poppy.”

“Without the full moon? Impossible.”

A vial of something Remus suspected to be a Calming Draft bumped suggestively against his shoulder, but he ignored it.

“Those cowards must have brought beasts into the castle…animals, bewitched to attack…I’ve heard of it happening…”

“No. Listen to me. It was Fenrir Greyback. Untransformed. Look, Poppy, look at this one - ” he pointed to a shallower bite on Bill’s exposed shoulder: two curves composed of puncture wounds, the shape and size of a human mouth.

“But they’re _bites_ ,” she said, her face distorting as disbelief gave way to abject disgust, “you mean… he’s been…”

_Savaged. Fed upon. Violated._

He held out the pot of her self-designed ointment and she seized it. With practised fingers that didn’t shake despite her mutters (“ _never_ …in all my years…”), she scooped out the mixture and smeared it into the gaping lacerations. No more would its pungent smell remind Remus of the Hogwarts of his childhood, instead it would summon this image: Bill, limp as a corpse, four slashes of peeled skin blaring across his face; a gouged hole below his right cheekbone; a recess in his neck so deep Remus could see the slit tendons.

_Savaged. Fed upon. Violated._

By Greyback. By the very werewolf who had shared his curse with Remus. The same poison lived in his flesh; the same infection polluted his brain.

_Obscene, abnormal, unspeakable._

Remus looked down at his hands. The layer of dried blood coating them was so thick that it cracked when he bent his fingers. It was packed deep into every line, wedged under his nails. The longer he looked at them, the more they began to tremble. And the smell, the smell was overwhelming, it was all over him: he wished he could drain himself of it, bleed it all out, let the curse and the damage and the guilt rush out of him. He was dizzy. He tried to breathe, to catch up with his skipping heart, but it only pulled the smell in deeper. There was a tingling in his mouth and he wretched slightly, feeling a burn of acid at the base of his throat. Something, a blurriness, was gathering at the edges of his vision. He put out a hand to steady himself but found only air.

“Hey,” said a soft voice.

A hand found the small of his back, steadying him.

“Try and breathe. Nice and slow.”

A glass of water, over-full, sloshed into his hand. He looked back at Tonks, disorientated, taking a small step away - how could she bear to touch him after what she’d witnessed? He drank the water down: letting it soothe the nausea inside him. He couldn’t let himself weaken; he had to endure this night until its end, for Bill. When he set the glass down, he noticed that his hands were clean.

“Thank you.”

Tonks did an odd one-shoulder shrug. Behind her, Remus could see Neville sleeping in a bed by the door with Hermione and Ron sitting close, looking grave and shaken as they watched Madam Pomfrey’s progress with Bill. Ginny had left to seek Harry.

“Is Neville alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” said Tonks. “It was an intestine-knotting curse but not a very powerful one, thank Merlin. I sorted him out. How’s Bill doing?”

“He’s stable,” said Madam Pomfrey, who had now drawn clean sheets around Bill’s lower half and was applying the ointment to his arms.

Tonks drew closer to the bed. She reached out her hand to where Bill’s dangled and held his slack fingers, stroking them with a dusty thumb. Her bottom lip quivered, but she didn’t cry.

“You’ll still get that ending, mate,” she said. “I know you will.”

Then, letting go of Bill’s hand, she let out a long breath.

“Are _you_ alright?” She demanded, her eyes startlingly bright in her grime-streaked face as she turned to Remus.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” he replied, tucking his unsteady hands out of sight. “Are you alright, Tonks? The Cruciatus Curse…I heard…”

She squeezed a tangle of hair in one fist and shook her head, her brow wrinkling.

“I’m okay but…Remus, how the _fuck_ did we make it out of that alive?’

“I don’t know.”

There was nothing else Remus could say. The front of Tonks’ robes were filthy from the battle. Above her ear, a bump was forming: caked in crumbly black blood. He didn’t like the look of it and crossed the room to Madam Pomfrey’s stores, withdrawing a vial of Concussion Cream from the cabinet. He screwed it open and, without thinking, dipped his fingers into the cool grey mixture.

“That for me? Cheers,” said Tonks, when he returned.

“Er…” Remus hesitated, “for your head, but…I didn’t mean to…you should do it yourself, of course…”

She blinked and for a painful second Remus thought she was about to laugh at him.

“It’s fine,” she pulled out a chair and sat down cross-legged, adding quietly, “you berk.”

Reproaching himself even as he did it, feeling as if the whole room was staring, Remus slowly lifted his hand to her temple. His fingertips touched her wound and he began to softly work in the healing cream. She closed her eyes. Her fingers picked at the ripped edge of her sleeve, the bottom corner of her lip pulled in as she bit it. He could feel the rigidity of her skull, the warmth of her skin. The bump gradually began to sink and soon the only evidence of the injury were the strands of stained, rust-coloured hair covering the spot. Death had rushed at her tonight, but here she was - too constant even for that. The relief made Remus light-headed, made him lost to the room until something happened that made his heart leap: Tonks had grasped his other hand -

“ _Episky_.”

\- and dropped it again before he could pull it away. The tip of his little finger flushed with heat, stiffened to ice, then nudged itself straight. He hadn’t even noticed it was broken. He thanked her, clipped and formal, then withdrew to restore the pot to Madam Pomfrey’s cupboard without looking back. He was a fool. He had to get a hold on himself. He wavered, wanting to go to Ron and Hermione (surely they needed something - chocolate, a potion, a word of reassurance?), but knowing he was the last person from whom they could glean comfort. He returned to Bill’s bedside instead, taking the seat by the window. The wounds no longer gushed with fresh blood now, only seeped a watery pale fluid as Bill slept on - obliviously, Remus hoped.

It was his responsibility to try and make sense of what had happened, but everything he’d ever read on lycanthropy only jostled uselessly in his memory. He had never heard of such a case before. The true curse was unequivocal: the saliva of the full moon’s beast had to mix with the blood of the victim. There would be no transformation, no alternate form waiting impatiently to shuck off the human wrapping, no parasite crouching on Bill’s soul - but nor would he be normal. Had Greyback inflicted him with some diluted version of the condition? Would Bill suffer from the aching lethargy, the bad dreams, the dread? Would he look up at the full moon and cower? Neither cursed nor clean, he would exist in a limbo of neither state; his position in society uncertain.

“We’ll bring him down.”

Remus looked up. Tonks was staring at Bill with an unfamiliar note of steel in her voice. Her grim expression bore little resemblance to the effervescent glow of the pink-haired woman he’d met on her first day in the Order of the Phoenix.

“Greyback. We’ll get him one day.”

“This isn’t your fight, Tonks,” Remus said, quietly.

“It wasn’t Bill’s either, but here we are.”

“Here we are,” he repeated, in a strained whisper, not wishing to be overheard but unable to hold back what he needed to say, “and now you’ve seen the very worst of my kind - with and without the full moon. You know what inhuman evil dwells inside werewolves.”

“It was a _human_ who did this,” Tonks snapped. “Someone who I reckon would still be a monster whether he was a werewolf or not. And it was humans firing death curses at kids back there. And you know what? This is my fight, actually. And Bill’s. And McGonagall’s. And everyone’s. It’s all the same fight. All the same war.”

Remus looked away. The darkness beyond the window seemed absolute, beyond end. He felt so tired.

“We need to change our tactics,” he said.

“What d’you mean?”

“Stunning, paralysing, attempting to capture. It puts us at a fatal disadvantage. All of the spells we fire can be blocked and given that we are grossly outnumbered, they invariably are. We were the superior duellers tonight, but we lost the battle. We’ll be dropping dead one by one if we don’t…if we aren’t prepared to kill.”

“I’m not saying they don’t deserve to die, ’cause they do…” Tonks began, now shredding the ripped edge of her sleeve, “but that doesn’t mean killing shouldn’t be a last resort. We’re supposed to be better than them, right? We’re vigilantes but we’re not thugs, we can’t just…start murdering people left, right and centre. Mad Eye always says that sending a Death Eater to Azkaban is the only real justice there is. It’s better to capture than to kill.”

“It is,” Remus agreed, “but I’m beginning to think that it’s better to kill than to watch your friends die.”

_And Sirius thought it too._

And, as if calling upon Sirius’ ghost had released another, Harry walked in; looking so arrestingly like James that Remus felt the wall of time between the two wars dissolve for just a second. But, as Hermione rushed forward to hug him, the spectre vanished and Harry was himself again: emerald-eyed and sixteen.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Remus asked, moving closer.

“I’m fine. How’s Bill?”

The answer stuck in Remus’ throat.

“Can’t you fix them with a charm or something?” Harry asked Madam Pomfrey.

“No charm will work on these,” she replied. “I’ve tried everything I know, but there is no cure for werewolf bites.”

“But he wasn’t bitten at the full moon,” said Ron, standing up, “Greyback hadn’t transformed, so surely Bill won’t be a - a real - ?”

As the room turned to look at Remus, he felt - though Tonks had vanished every last speck - the blood still weighing on his skin. Goosebumps prickled across his scar, as if it had somehow become visible to them all through his clothes.

“No, I don’t think that Bill will be a true werewolf,” he said, slowly, “but that does not mean that there won’t be some contamination. Those are cursed wounds. They are unlikely ever to heal fully, and - and Bill might have some wolfish characteristics from now on.”

“Dumbledore might know something that’d work, though,” Ron said. “Where is he? Bill fought those maniacs on Dumbledore’s orders, Dumbledore owes him, he can’t leave him in this state - ”

“Ron - Dumbledore’s dead,” said Ginny.

Remus looked at Ginny, shocked that she would make such an unpleasant, misplaced joke. But there was no humour in her face: her mouth was set in a determined line, her eyes troubled. An uncanny feeling stole over Remus and suddenly the night didn’t seem real at all, even the craze of the battle - Tonks’ head striking the wall as Remus tackled her; Bill face-down in a puddle of blood; the tip of his wand aiming at Greyback’s heart - all felt like a waking dream. But even as his mind attempted to recede into unreality, he couldn’t help but notice the solidity of the floor beneath his feet; the dull ache in his muscles; the persistency of his breath, and knew he was awake. Confusion became anger and it burst out of him in a desperate need to deny Ginny’s words, to force them back into the past.

“No!”

But Harry’s face confirmed it. Ginny had spoken the truth. And Remus couldn’t trust his legs, he felt himself folding back down into the chair. Dumbledore dead. He covered his face with his hands. He had to black out the room, to create a darkness to be alone in. Everything was sliding apart, cracking into pieces, crawling away from him: the room and the people in it and himself, all splitting, slipping away towards a yawning hole. Dumbledore dead. The bones of his existence, the great structurer of his life, gone. What could Remus do now? Where could he go? And how could they ever hope to win the war? Somewhere behind his hands, he heard Tonks asking Harry how it happened.

“Snape killed him.”

No one moved. No one held each other. They each absorbed the news alone. Remus knew what it took to cast the _Avada Kedavra_. He knew the pure, unhesitating hatred required to make a heart stop. So that, he thought, was how Snape really felt towards Dumbledore. And now, like a swelling wave gathering the energy to crash, Remus felt it for Snape in return.

“Shh,” said Ginny, making Remus raise his head. “Listen.”

Somewhere in the night clouds, Fawkes was singing a lament. Like a sweet breeze, it travelled in through the window. The bright melody danced into Remus’ head and under his skin, the sensation like the soft warmth of phoenix fire. And a quiet calm, as unburdened as red and gold feathers floating on the air currents, settled upon him and though it was still night Remus could see, in the delicate space behind his eyelids, a vast sky of the most piercing, luminous blue. Others dwelt in the music too, others he had lost. They were distant, but edging closer, as if trying to tell him something. The music swelled with a hope that was beautiful but agonising: so immense and impossible, so much harder to embrace than despair. Remus almost covered his ears. But he didn’t.

“Molly and Arthur are on their way.”

McGonagall had joined them in the hospital wing, a lock of thick hair flowing loose from her bun, her face dusty and bruised. The music faded and Harry told her everything, including that terrible combination of words that had once been unimaginable: Snape killed Dumbledore. Madam Pomfrey conjured McGonagall a chair as she teetered.

“We all wondered…but he trusted…always… _Snape_ …I can’t believe it…”

“Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens. We always knew that,” said Remus.

“But Dumbledore swore he was on our side! I always thought Dumbledore must know something about Snape that we didn’t…” said Tonks.

“He always hinted that he had an iron-clad reason for trusting Snape,” said McGonagall, pulling a tartan handkerchief from her robes. “I mean…with Snape’s history…of course people were bound to wonder…but Dumbledore told me explicitly that Snape’s repentance was absolutely genuine…wouldn’t hear a word against him!”

“I’d love to know what Snape told him to convince him,” said Tonks, gnawing at her lip.

“I know,” said Harry. “Snape passed Voldemort the information that made Voldemort hunt down my mum and dad.”

The missing link. Remus’ breath stopped and he felt the wrath rising in his heart again. How could he have been so blind? Sirius had never let Snape’s graduation from creeping Dark Arts-obsessed youth into talented adult with the trust of Albus Dumbledore shake his rightful suspicion. How Remus wished Sirius would burst into the room and start screaming at them all. Snape and Wormtail: two traitors, still living and breathing.

“…then Snape told Dumbledore he hadn’t realized what he was doing, he was really sorry he’d done it, sorry that they were dead,” Harry continued.

“And Dumbledore believed that?” Remus asked, hardly able to comprehend it; Dumbledore’s madness of compassion. “Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry James was dead? Snape hated James.”

“And he didn’t think my mother was worth a damn, either,” said Harry, “because she was Muggle-born…‘mudblood’, he called her…”

Remus remembered the sweltering afternoon by the lake, the malice in Snape’s face as he’d spat out that word. Worst of all was what Remus hoped Harry never found out: the discomfiting anomaly that Lily had once been Snape’s friend. Starting Hogwarts as a mismatched pair from the same muggle town, they were inseparable - until they weren’t. Once the innocence of childhood had been shed, their jejune bond had broken: Snape’s immersion in the Dark Arts had clearly made him believe that his remarkable friend was no longer worthy of his attention. Snape was incapable of any real feeling, Remus understood that now. Snape’s acidity, cruelty and self-imposed isolation weren’t products of jealousy or resentment of James, they were all Snape was and ever could be.

“This is all my fault,” said McGonagall. “My fault. I sent Filius to fetch Snape tonight, I actually sent for him to come and help us! If I hadn’t alerted Snape to what was going on, he might never have joined forces with the Death Eaters. I don’t think he knew they were there before Filius told him, I don’t think he knew they were coming.”

“It isn’t your fault, Minerva,” he said. “We all wanted more help, we were glad to think Snape was on his way…”

“So when he arrived at the fight, he joined in on the Death Eaters’ side?” Harry asked.

They recounted every sickening twist and turn of the night until the picture was complete. Afterwards, another hush fell on the room and Fawkes’ song lilted in to fill the silence. Remus felt such a powerful urge to look at Tonks it almost made tears spring to his eyes, but he trained his gaze down at the floor. The door opened and this time it was Molly, Arthur and Fleur. They streamed into the room, intent on Bill, their faces terrified. Remus leapt up, vacating his chair and backing away towards the window. They wouldn’t want him so close. Remus watched as Molly kissed Bill’s blood-dampened forehead. The sight of it hit him like a note of phoenix song, like a whisper in his ear from his own mother. But, just as Remus had known they would, the questions started quickly.

“You said Greyback attacked him?” Arthur was asking McGonagall, “But he hadn’t transformed? So what does that mean? What will happen to Bill?”

“We don’t yet know,” she replied.

The room followed her gaze to Remus.

“There will probably be some contamination, Arthur. It is an odd case, possibly unique…we don’t know what his behaviour might be like when he wakes up.”

It felt like an admission of guilt and once again he felt bloodied, scarred, as he stood before them. Instead of his battle-torn robes, he was dressed in the baggy muggle garb of Greyback’s camp and there was a beard concealing his chin, unwashed hair hanging to his shoulders. He wished he could keep them believing that his condition was isolated to the full moon - that it, in Arthur’s old words, was ‘quite easy to manage’ - instead of ebbing and flowing within him all the time, haunting him with nightmares. A werewolf had defiled their son and had done so in human form - in the very form in which Remus now stood amongst them. How could they tolerate his presence in their home ever again? Bill would soon wake up to see a stranger in the mirror - perhaps he would even feel some trace, some ghost of the curse, lurking inside him. He wasn’t the same man who had stood on the beach, unmarked and full of vigour, posing for the photograph on the wedding invitation in Remus' pocket. He wondered, without the slightest hint of blame, how long Fleur would stay. But it was Fleur’s voice, loud and sharp, that broke Remus out of his reverie.

“And what do you mean by zat? What do you mean, ‘e was _going_ to be married?”

“Well - only that - ”

“You theenk Bill will not wish to marry me anymore? You theenk, because of these bites, he will not love me?”

Fleur stood tall, breathing short and hard, blazing as if every light in the room was being pulled towards her.

“No, that’s not what I - ” said Molly, gaping up at her.

“Because ‘e will! It would take more zan a werewolf to stop Bill loving me!”

“Well, yes, I’m sure…” said Molly, blinking, “but I thought perhaps - given how - how he - ”

“You thought I would not weesh to marry him? Or per’aps, you ‘oped? What do I care how ‘e looks? I am good-looking enough for both of us, I theenk! All these scars show is zat my husband is brave!”

Fleur seized the ointment and began smoothing it into the puckered edges of the very worst of Bill’s wounds, her slim fingers gentle, unflinching. Remus saw the determined love in her face and it made him quake. Like the hope between the notes of the phoenix song, it was too big, too extraordinary - it made Remus want to start running. There was one person in the room not looking at Fleur, someone whose sparkling gaze held Remus in place like a vice. He knew Tonks’ heart was burning because his was too. He dared not look back at her, but her stare was unstoppable.

“Our Great Auntie Muriel has a very beautiful tiara - goblin-made - which I am sure I could persuade her to lend you for the wedding. She is very fond of Bill, you know, and it would look lovely with your hair.”

“Thank you,” said Fleur, stiffly. “I am sure zat will be lovely.”

In a blink, Molly and Fleur were embracing each other, rocking from side to side as they wept. And Remus felt a shift in the air, as if the ceiling was about to cave in on top of them once again. Silently, he begged Tonks to stop whatever it was she was about to do; to let him be, not to torture him.

“You see!”

_Tonks…please…_

“She still wants to marry him, even though he’s been bitten! She doesn’t care!”

“It’s different,” he said, barely moving his lips as if that could prevent them all from hearing.

He wanted to shrink away. He wished that he was anywhere else, that he was _anything_ else; the smallest mole in the ground, low and buried in the earth. He couldn’t stand it. Everyone was watching. Tonks’ folly, his unforgivable weakness, what they had once been to one another, exposed.

“Bill will not be a full werewolf. The cases are completely - ”

“But I don’t care either, I don’t care!”

Her boots pounded the stone floor and then she was upon him; so close he could see dust particles clinging to her eyelashes, the lines of fury on her perfect face. She seized his dirty robes, crushing handfuls of fabric in her fists, and shook him back and forth, pressing against his chest, making him sway on his feet.

“I’ve told you a million times…”

“And I’ve told _you_ a million times,” said Remus, not looking at her because to look at her would be to fall and he couldn’t, he couldn’t betray her like that; all he had was his refrain, “that I am too old for you, too poor…too dangerous…”

Tonks ripped her hands away, whether in disgust at him or shock at herself, he didn’t know. He felt cold without the heat of her touch. She pushed a hand up through her unchangeable hair, smudging the bloody ointment deep into the roots. Her cheeks glowed pink, her eyes were squeezed shut. Here was the woman he loved, drenched in sorrow.

“I’ve said all along you’re taking a ridiculous line on this, Remus.”

It was Molly, looking at him through the strands of silvery-blond hair over Fleur’s shoulder.

“I am not being ridiculous,” said Remus, forcing his voice into steadiness even as the affection in Molly’s voice sent him reeling. “Tonks deserves somebody young and whole.”

“But she wants you,” said Arthur, as gentle as his wife. “And after all, Remus, young and whole men do not necessarily remain so.”

How could they still take Tonks’ side? How could such purity, such goodness, still exist now that a great crack had rent the world apart?

“This is…not the moment to discuss it. Dumbledore is dead…”

“Dumbledore would have been happier than anybody to think that there was a little more love in the world,” said McGonagall, lending her voice to the rest.

Remus had to turn away, hardly able to bear the miracle of their kindness. Outside the window, the night was dying. Remus could see the outlines of the indigo clouds; the black mass of the forest below. The instinct to flee remained - a pull towards despair, towards the gaping abyss of grief - but the loneliness of it chilled him. Everything was coming apart, everything collapsing, except for one thing: and it was too radiant, too consuming, for him to comprehend.

“I’ve…I’ve done it, Professor.”

Jolted, Remus turned to see Hagrid, choking with sobs.

“M-moved him. Professor Sprout’s got the kids back in bed. Professor Flitwick’s lyin’ down but he says he’ll be all right in a jiffy, an’ Professor Slughorn says the Ministry’s bin informed.”

McGonagall rose into action. Her handkerchief disappeared into a pocket and she issued her first instructions as Headmistress of Hogwarts. Remus watched Harry follow her out of the Hospital Wing and felt the familiar throb of failure…he should have said more to him, done more for him…

“You three - off to bed,” said Molly, abruptly.

She was standing with one hand on Fleur’s shoulder, looking at the three remaining teenagers. Ron and Hermione - leaning on one another, ginger hair combining with curly - nodded, exhausted, but Ginny opened her mouth to protest.

“No arguments,” said Molly, cutting her off. “I want all of you safe in your dormitories this instant.”

“I’ll take them, Molly,” said Tonks quietly, passing Remus without a backwards glance.

Molly thanked her and Fleur reached out to squeeze her hand. Tonks turned her head and Remus saw her face in profile, just for a second, as she looked back at Fleur - first with surprise, then with the smallest, saddest smile he’d ever seen.

“Come on, guys,” she said, putting an arm around Ginny.

Tonks led them from the room, the ripped hem of her robe floating just above the floor on which she left a trail of bloody footprints. Remus stayed at the window, feeling the breeze on the back of his neck and attempting to breathe evenly. He waited for as long as he dared, then slipped out.

“You are going after Tonks, I ‘ope!”

He walked faster and, on reaching the corridor, faster still until he was running: running away from the Hospital Wing; away from the place he learnt Dumbledore was dead; away from Snape’s treachery; away from impossible, terrifying acceptance - in the opposite direction to Gryffindor Tower. He ran until he had to stop to heave air into his lungs, leaning back against a tapestry. But he hadn’t escaped the phoenix song: it had followed him from the window, seeking him through the winding corridors of the castle, the notes like fingers reaching across a divide. Earlier that day, though it felt like a lifetime ago, he’d scorned Tonks’ words and told himself that nothing was more powerful than death. The dead were lost, speechless, present only in Remus’ fading memories. Why then did it feel as if they were only just behind the wall he leant against; only beyond the next corner, only a whisper away? He closed his eyes.

_Monday AM…Monday PM…Tuesday AM…Remus popped five different muggle pills into each little plastic box until the whole week was filled. He still found the non-magical system a little peculiar, but he obeyed it, knowing his mother preferred it that way._

_“Remus…will you come here a moment?”_

_Her voice was weak, her cheeks hollowed from the sickness that grew - once with stealth, now with abandon - throughout her whole body. He sat down on the bed. He noticed the ring was missing from her finger before he realized she was holding it out to him._

_“Don’t be silly. Mum, please don’t…it’s yours…I’ll never have cause to need it.”_

_“Of course you will. You’ll be loved, my darling - and whoever they are, they’ll be blessed, they’ll be - ”_

_“Mad. They’ll be completely mad, Mum.”_

_“Yes,” she said, and laughed though it must have hurt her terribly, “and what would be so wrong with that?”_

Remus wrapped his arms tightly around himself. He felt like sobbing, but his eyes were dry. If death was not the stronger, then what was?

_Remus looked down into the bottom of his glass. The dregs of bitter champagne flashed with colour as they reflected the lights from the outdoor dance floor. The bass line thrummed in his chest. Then he jumped, almost dropping his drink, as two pairs of lips kissed each of his cheeks at the same time._

_“What are you doing here by yourself?” Lily demanded, ruffling Remus’ hair._

_“This wedding has a strict no moping rule, Moony,” said James._

_Grabbing a hand each, they dragged him out and, laughing, started to turn. Lily’s hair, spun through with white flowers, had come loose from its bridal knot and cascaded down her back. James’ dark eyes were mischievous, joyful. Their little circle wheeled faster and faster still, Remus let himself laugh too, throwing his head back to look up at the glittering bower below the stars._

What would they say to him if they could see him now? Remus had been cruel to Tonks. He’d rejected her, lied to her, given her reason after reason to turn her back on him - but the love hadn’t died. And for the first time, Remus let himself believe it, let himself feel the truth: _Tonks loved him_. And he loved her. It was the heaviest of burdens, it was the most sublime freedom. Bolshy sprite, rebel Auror, an ever-turning kaleidoscope of passion, grit and singularity - he’d die for her, gladly; kill for her, without a second thought. It was doomed to failure, it was irresponsible to even consider - but what if that wasn’t the point? What if the most important point, the only point there could be, was for Tonks to be happy?

_“Won’t it, um, be awfully risky, sir? I mean…Professor?”_

_Remus was turning a smooth, violet gobstone over in his fingers: hardly daring to believe what the old man was suggesting; this spectacular stranger with the longest beard Remus had ever seen who, despite his years, nimbly crouched on the floor with him._

_“It might all go wrong,” he whispered, shamed by his nervousness._

_The professor smiled._

_“You know, Remus, I’ve often found that the very best things in life often involve a little bit of risk.”_

Without Dumbledore, the war would become a living hell - they’d tasted some of it already. Tonks had almost died that night - and died miserable, because of him. She deserved so much better than who and what he was: in loving every meagre, damaged, dangerous part of him she was stooping. But she wasn’t going to stop until he gave in. So…what if he did? What if he chose to stay by her side, protect her, let himself love her - for as long as she wanted him to, for as long as he stayed alive? Remus turned and rested his forehead on the tapestry, the decision wracking him. He didn’t want to be alone, he never had. He was a werewolf, but his heart was human and it dwelt in a body that yearned to meld with another, with hands that longed to be filled and eyes that wanted to stare into hers without shame.

_“It’s what you want, you just have to be brave enough.”_

Dead and gone, but somehow they still had so much to say to him. The reasons he had clung to - old, poor, dangerous; old, poor, dangerous - still circled in his head, but quieter, quieter. Dawn was coming and Remus felt the change coursing through him. Both the living and the dead were pushing him, shoving him, dragging him into the future.

He stood up straight and faced the dark corridor. Where was Tonks now? Still at Gryffindor Tower? Or on her way back to Hogsmeade? Remus had no map, but he didn’t need one. He drew his wand, spoke the words, and there it was: a jack rabbit that gambolled through the air, with twitching nose and not a wolfish feature in sight. The very best part of him.

“Take me,” he whispered to it.


	14. Morning

**Chapter 14: Morning**

_Mum was right, of course she fucking was. ‘It can only end badly’, she said, ‘you mustn’t pressure someone into being with you’, she said. You can’t humiliate someone into agreeing with you, Tonks, you can’t pummel someone into submission, Tonks, you can’t be such a graceless, clod-headed shambles-on-legs. You can’t make Remus Lupin love you._

Tonks’ boots smacked the marble as she took the staircase down from Gryffindor Tower three steps at a time.

_Sirius told you to go slow, to be gentle with him, and every time you’ve ignored that advice, you’ve fucked it up. And now there’s no hope._

With a squeak of rubber, she stopped dead.

_There’s no hope._

Leaning forward slightly, she covered her face with the shredded ribbons of her sleeves. She wanted to weep, wanted to feel the release of tears, but she had none left: she was used up, emptied out. She longed for the phoenix song: for the pristine sound that had filled her like a great gulp of air and made her remember Dumbledore’s words, _“it's a wonderful thing you're feeling, Tonks. A noble, transformative thing”_. But the castle was silent. And the tree-lined path back to Hogsmeade was calling her; the deep green tunnel twisting in her mind, the grey cobbles of the village, the attic room like a cell, all waiting for her. It made her feel sick, she couldn’t stand it, she’d had enough. She wanted her broomstick, she wanted to fly as high as possible; soak herself in the clouds, kill her dread with speed. But running away was what Remus did, not her.

At a faint rumbling, Tonks looked up: the white arms of the marble staircases glided and criss-crossed into new positions high above her. Hogwarts without Dumbledore. How was it possible? How could the castle live on without its radical, compassionate heart? Tonks clenched her fists. She’d never heard Snape laugh before, but surely he was laughing tonight; the night he’d gutted the Order of the Phoenix. Tonks knew then where she wanted to go.

The desks in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom were arranged in immaculate rows. The tall windows were smothered by black curtains and every inch of remaining wall covered in life-size images of suffering. Tonks stared up at the pictures. The faces were almost inhuman in their agony, frozen at precise moments of their torture: some with their bones buckling, others with grotesque contusions. Tonks marched across the room and tugged at the bottom edge of one, but it wouldn’t budge. Pulling out her wand, she blasted it with a splitting jinx and tore the canvas down in strips with her bare hands. Reaching a window, she ripped the curtain away, revealing the dark morning blue of the pre-dawn sky. She didn’t stop to look, only blasted the next picture off the wall and dragged it down to smash across her knee. As she turned to kick at the remains, she caught sight of the doorway. Someone was standing there. Tall, silent, watching her.

Tonks didn’t jump, but her mouth opened in surprise and she let the remaining splinters of wood drop from her fingers to the floor. Remus looked down at the scattered debris then up at the walls. Slowly, he walked to her side and reached up for the next picture, grasping the frame with his strong white fingers and wrenching it down. Together, wordlessly, they purged the rest of the room. When every trace of Snape was gone, Tonks waited: leaning against the huge teacher’s desk, jaw clenched, arms folded - waiting for Round Three. Remus stood amongst the classroom desks, so still he was almost absent; incorporeal, untouchable. _Spit it out. Say something_ , Tonks screamed at him inside her head. His silence was insulting. What had he come here to tell her? Had he found somewhere new to go and get himself killed? She rubbed at her forehead, sticky from battle sweat, refusing to speak first.

“I’ve never lived my life in complete honesty.”

Her arm flopped back to her side.

“I’ve always…” Remus paused and blinked, as if forcing himself to keep his gaze locked onto hers, “always been obscuring some truth about myself, my condition or…all the very many things I’ve done that have made me feel ashamed. It’s all I’ve ever known. But…” Tonks could see his chest rising and falling, “I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want to lie to you…”, his voice became even quieter than before, “…I’ve made so many mistakes. I’ve tried to make myself a stranger to you.”

Tonks chewed her lip. She felt muddled, jittery - his words didn’t fit together properly in her brain. He needed to spell out whatever new excuse he was planning to fling at her this time so she could figure out a way to counter it.

“But I was a fool. Because you and I can never be strangers. Because even if I tore myself apart, the truth would still be there, etched into every last piece of me. And…I…”

He glanced suddenly at the window. His face was alight, the silver strands in his hair glowing, a new warmth touching his cheeks. His voice became so soft it was scarcely more than a breath.

“The sun’s coming up.”

“Just put me out of my bloody misery already!” Tonks snapped. “Why did you follow me here? What the hell are you trying to s - ”

“I love you.”

“What?”

“I love you completely. I’ll love you every day for the rest of my life.”

The words hit her as pain. She gripped the desk behind her.

“But of course you already knew that,” he continued. “Which means that my standing here and speaking the words you deserved to hear a long time ago is not nearly enough. Even if I had the skill to do you justice, I know that words alone cannot redeem me. So I’m asking you, _entreating_ you, to let me devote myself to making you happy. I can’t offer you a normal relationship, or even an easy one, but - well - you don’t care much for normal or easy, do you? It’s a miracle I’m seeking, but you’ve always laughed in the face of the things I’ve deemed impossible.”

Tonks’ heart was thumping so loudly she was sure Remus must be able to hear it in the quiet that fell. She couldn’t move. He began speaking again, faster than before.

“I’d get on my knees if I thought it would please you, but I know it wouldn’t - you’ve only ever tried to lift me up. I could fill reams of parchment, but I know you’d think it cowardly if I hid behind a quill. Perhaps I’m rambling now, perhaps this maundering is maddening for you to listen to but…I’ve never spoken to you openly before and there’s so much I want you to understand. My affliction has defined my entire life. It’s with me every step that I take. It runs in my veins. It weighs on me…on my…on my soul. I never thought anything could transcend that feeling, could make me feel untainted even for a second - but you could. When we…when we were together, you made me forget what I was sometimes and I’ve never experienced anything so sweet, so wonderful, as that. You’ve kicked down every wall I’ve ever put up. You’ve taken my breath away with your courage and kindness and beauty more times than I can count. I won’t repeat the many reasons why you deserve better, I won’t insult your intelligence like that, I’ll only promise never to use them to push you away again. I’ll put my fear aside, I swear I’ll try. I’ll do anything to make up for the hurt I’ve caused you.”

Tonks seemed to float, suspended in the calm air of the morning, as adrenaline bubbled through her system.

“Please tell me I’m not too late,” he whispered.

A tear shone bright on Remus’ cheek, stark against his dusty skin.

“Dora.”

Tonks lurched away from the table and hurled herself between the desks towards him: their cheekbones collided hard, their noses bumped, but Remus caught her with one hand at the small of her back and the other tipping her chin so that their lips met. He kissed her bottom lip, her top lip, impossibly soft; his hands, so gentle, cupped her face, sending tingles spiralling from the tips of her hair to the nape of her neck. Memory and fantasy were nothing compared to the real thing and Tonks kissed him back fiercely, even the battle dust tasting sweet, forgetting to breathe; falling deep into the warmth of him, the smell of him; desire swelling like an eddy, pushing their bodies tight together. They pulled back for just a second and Remus stroked her cheek, looking down into her eyes. She saw tiny flecks of pattern in his irises (she’d forgotten about those, how could she have forgotten about those?) and neat, brown lashes. Then he was kissing her again, harder now, and Tonks plunged her fingers into his hair. She could taste the salt of tears but who they belonged to, she didn’t know. All she knew was the sensation of life being kissed back into her, electrifying her skin, blowing a fire into her belly.

“Stop,” she gasped, pushing against him and half-tripping backwards. “Stop, stop.”

Her lips were tingling as she glared at him.

“You fucking _bastard_. You put me through _hell_. A year. A whole fucking year, Remus!”

“I know. I’m sorry, I - ”

“Shut up, just shut up - you have no idea what I’ve been through! You have no idea what it’s been like! Not a scrap of communication from you apart from those poxy letters at Christmas, constantly running around trying to figure out any information I could, thinking your murdered corpse was gonna wash up any second. I came out of St Mungo’s and Sirius was dead and I told you I loved you and you left me. You left me! Now you’re telling me you’ve changed your mind, are you fucking serious? All it took was….what? The worst year of my life, both of us nearly dying a bazillion times, fighting Death Eaters in the corridors of Hogwarts and watching Bill get mauled and losing Dumbledore and me making a twat out of myself in front of everyone? You’ve been cruel, Remus. You’ve been cold and calculating and - stop nodding! Stop fucking nodding along to what I’m saying! You are so annoying!”

Remus stopped nodding and froze.

“So, so, so….what now?” Tonks demanded, scraping back her hair with her fingers. “You’ve made your big confession, delivered your fancy speech and you think we’ll just go back to the way things were?”

“No,” said Remus, voice a little higher than usual. “Not the way things were - better, far better than before. I won’t keep any secrets this time. I’ll commit to you utterly. I’ll never doubt. I’ll be yours, Dora.”

“You’re aware that less than an hour ago you were rejecting me, right? What’s happened to you since then? What’s changed?”

“I’ve changed. I know it may be difficult to believe, but - ”

“Yeah! It is difficult to believe!”

“I’ll earn your trust back. I’ll work for it. I’ll wait. We can take things slow.”

“Take things slow. _Take things slow_? You…” Tonks let out a bizarre sound: part laugh, part growl, part wail, “you’re such a bloody idiot!”

She grabbed his robes and pulled him towards her, crushing her lips against his. She heard his stifled moan and became lost all over again: all her rage coalescing into desire, all her senses overloaded with him, all logic sinking into an intoxicating ocean. His hands on her waist, he kissed her cheekbone, the delicate skin below her ear, down her jawline.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered.

“You want me to make you suffer?” She said, pulling his hair to make him look at her. “You really think we’ve got time for that? I can kiss you and be furious with you at the same time, you know. Don’t underestimate me.”

Remus laughed a little, though his eyes swam. Their foreheads were pressed together, their noses touching.

“I’ve missed that smile,” she said. “So much.”

“Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he whispered.

A throb of sorrow made her feel suddenly limp. She remembered herself as she’d been that day: laid out on the kitchen floor with her newly colourless hair pooling all around her.

“You crumbled my heart up into little bits. You wouldn’t even let me finish, wouldn’t even give me a chance. I don’t blame you for going on the mission. It was your duty, you had to leave, but…you didn’t have to leave _me_. We could have made it work, kept in contact somehow…we would have had Christmas together at least…”

“I was too lost. Too afraid. I thought if I gave you a clean separation and kept us apart by any means necessary, you would forget me. I thought that was the only way to keep you safe.”

“No such thing as safety these days. You thought you were setting me free but you didn’t know what you were plunging me into. It felt like you’d chosen to die instead of love me.”

“I’d choose death over putting you in danger - and at that time I believed that danger was all my love could amount to.”

Sudden, relieving tears streamed down Tonks’ cheeks. Remus raised his hand to her face, staunching them on one side then the other.

“I swear I’ll never hurt you again,” he said.

She leant her head on his chest and he hugged her, wrapping her up in his arms.

“You’re still annoying,” she said, her voice muffled.

“I know.”

They kissed again, slower now, lingering over every press of lips. Remus stroked her hair, her back, down her spine. He made her feel weak, made her want to melt into the floor - but it wasn’t weakness, not really. Their love was defiance and always had been. Her hands found their way under his robe to his threadbare shirt as he started to kiss her neck with the same lips that had formed the words that had changed everything, _I love you, I love you completely, I’ll love you every day for the rest of my life…_

“I knew you’d come back to me,” she whispered.

“I didn’t,” he breathed. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again…hold you…kiss you…”

She could feel his heart pounding. It made her want to touch the skin of his chest with her lips. She wanted there to be nothing, no distance, no fabric, between them ever again.

“You shouldn’t have doubted me,” she said, breathy between kisses, “because I told you…didn’t I tell you…?”

“You were supposed to stop…you were supposed to stop loving me…”

She smiled against his mouth.

“I don’t do the things I’m s’posed to.”

“I love you for that,” he said, drawing back, eyes boring into hers, his thumb touching the corner of her lips. “And for so much else.”

“I love you too,” she said, taking him with her as she shuffled backwards slightly, “I hadn’t actually said that yet, had I?”

“You didn’t need to.”

The back of her knees hit something hard. She placed the heels of her hands on the desk behind her and jumped up onto it, tugging at Remus’ clothes to drag his body nearer, parting her legs around him. She had to have him. She was touch-starved, ravenous: everything that had been cold for so long was hot, blossoming, ready; his tongue moving with hers, his hands clutching the thin material of her top, his body - so real, so touchable - pressing against hers made her drunk. She couldn’t slow down, she needed it all to happen faster, faster because a desperate thought had trickled into her brain: they couldn’t stop, they couldn’t let the moment die because if it did, if he stopped to think, he would leave her again, it would all collapse. She took one of his hands in hers and pushed it up underneath the material, sliding it against her bare stomach, every inch of skin prickling deliciously, higher -

“Tonks…Dora…wait…”

His wrist stiffened. He stopped moving.

“Not like this.”

Tonks slipped off the desk, landing hard on one ankle.

“Why not?”

“Not here. Not so soon. There’s still so much for us to talk about.”

“If we keep talking, you’ll talk yourself out of it.”

“No - ”

“As soon as we leave this room you’ll come to your senses and everything will fall apart.”

“No, no - listen - ”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a near death experience led you to do something you later regretted, would it? You’ll shrug off whatever temporary madness this has been and go back to being too old, too poor, too dangerous for me.”

“I wont,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her hard on the forehead. “I won’t waver. I won’t falter. I’ll be as steadfast as you’ve been this long terrible year - I swear it.”

He took both her hands in his.

“I want everything to happen at the right time, that’s all. In the right place.”

Tonks breathed, feeling the sudden panic that had gripped her insides like a vice slowly begin to subside.

“So…this is us now? Genuinely?”

Remus nodded.

“I’ve never been a boyfriend before, but I’ll do my best.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and he held her tight.

“I’ll do my best,” he whispered again into her hair.

———————-

It was going to be a hot day. Tonks blinked as the sun rose higher over the rolling green of the Hogwarts grounds; the sky shedding the smouldering peach tones of the early morning and becoming a pure light blue. Remus’ hand was firm in hers as they walked. The air was sweet.

“It’s a beautiful morning,” he said.

Tonks nodded. She couldn’t decide whether the beauty of the day felt wrong or right: in the castle behind them lay Dumbledore’s body, Bill in his hospital bed, a generation of students about to discover that the war had encroached upon their very classrooms. Wrong or right didn’t factor into it, she supposed - the beauty just was. They didn’t say much as they walked, as if they’d silently agreed not to speak of the night they were leaving behind. There would be a time to speak of such things - of Greyback, Snape, the battle they’d lost - but it wasn’t then, not with the whispering leaves above their heads, the breeze off the mountains lifting their hair, a new life beckoning them on.

But if the journey down from the castle had felt like walking in a dream, entering Tonks’ attic lodgings woke her with a start. Stale and gloomy, the curtains were pulled shut as usual: unscourgified dishes sat by the sink, the bed was unmade and rumpled, the tower of old newspapers quivered at the intrusion of the outside air. It was exactly how she’d left it when she’d sprinted out, muttering the words of a speech she’d never give, fresh from hatching her little plan with Bill. Remus, with a sharp glance up and down the street, shut the door, prompting Mildred to take flight; flapping furiously up to the beams and glowering down at them.

“Grim. Sorry. I guess I haven’t had company over in a while…or ever.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s lovely.”

She snorted.

“Don’t be polite. It’s a total dive. Tea!” She cried as the thought struck her. “I can make you tea.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

She turned her back on him at the kitchenette counter, boiling water in two mugs with her wand and hoping he wouldn’t notice the two teabags and two globs of milk squeezing under the doorframe, ‘borrowed’ from her downstairs neighbours. When she brought the overflowing mugs to him, he was sitting on the very edge of her bed, his gaze slowly sliding over the room.

“You’ve been unhappy here,” he said.

“Well,” she said, handing him a tea, “yeah.”

“It wasn’t what I imagined for you when I was away. I thought you’d bounce back. Not immediately perhaps but…”

“You thought I’d come to my senses after a couple of weeks? Start dating some boot-licking, Ministry man?”

“Something like that. But then, as we’ve established, I am a bloody idiot.”

“Well I’m the one who’s in love with a bloody idiot, so what does that make me?”

She flopped down next to him, ignoring the droplets of scalding tea that peppered her knees. He put his arm around her, but didn’t smile.

“Do you mind if I ask you about your morphing, about what happened?”

Tonks grimaced, her hand rising automatically to her hair.

“I figured you already knew. I thought Molly’d tell you or something.”

“I think she may have tried to. I wasn’t prepared to listen back then, but I am now - and I don’t want it sugarcoated. I have to take responsibility.”

“It stopped working the day you left,” she said, tugging on a dirty lock of mousey hair, “I’ve tried again and again, but I can’t change so much as a fingernail. You remember how my hair looked the last time we saw each other?”

“Bright pink. And short.”

“Yeah, so it grew out - all the way down past my bum - and the colour faded to this rubbish. It was like my body reverted to some kind of…default. A real horror show. I had to lop it all off.”

“It must have been awful.”

“It’s hard to explain how it feels. It’s sort of…claustrophobic, you know? According to mum and dad, I started morphing the day I was born. Now I’m stuck. Needless to say, the Auror Department weren’t best impressed. At least I got the opportunity to show them what else I can do.”

“Have you spoken to anyone about it? A Healer?”

“There’s nothing physically or magically wrong with me, I don’t need a Healer to tell me that. It’s all in my head - what my Nana Tonks would have called ‘the blues’, I guess. They’re hard to shake off. But, look it…it wasn’t only because you dumped me,” she paused and chewed her lip, Remus squeezed her hand, “Sirius had died. I thought you were going to die. I thought I’d failed at everything, failed everyone - you, him, my mum, myself. I still dream about it, all the things I could have done differently. I’m not who I was before that night.”

“Suffering doesn’t make you a different person. You’re still yourself. And Dora, please believe me, you haven’t failed _anyone_. It’s horrible to hear you speak that way. What happened to Sirius wasn’t your fault. The only person present in the Department of Mysteries that night who could have bested Bellatrix was Dumbledore.”

“I was arrogant.”

“You’re confident,” he conceded. “But that’s part of what makes you great. I saw you duelling last night, you were superb.”

“I’ve been training. A lot.”

“You took on three werewolves and a Death Eater to save an entire wedding party. You’ve proved your salt as an Auror time and time again. The Order and the Ministry are both lucky to have you. And…I’m the luckiest of all.”

She leant into him, hooking her legs over his knee and resting her cheek against his neck. For a quiet few minutes, they did nothing more than sip their tea.

“Is - is that…?”

Remus was looking at something over Tonks’ head. She twisted round to look: it was the photograph taken on Remus’ thirty-sixth birthday, mounted on her bedside table. She summoned it into her hand and passed it to him. Remus placed his mug slowly down on the floor and stared down at the little moving picture in his lap.

“I don’t have any photographs of him,” he whispered. “After the first war, I destroyed them all. So I haven’t…I haven’t seen his face since…”

Tonks had spent so much time staring at it she could recite all the details from memory. Remus was jammed between the two of them with a grateful, if uncertain, smile on his face. Tonks stood on his left, one arm looped around his neck, laughing so hard that her violet curls bobbed, tapping her feet to silent music. Sirius stood on his right, grinning sardonically out at them, unshaven, dark-eyed, stunning. As he looked down at his best friend, the real Remus made an almost inaudible sound. Tonks scooped her legs underneath her and hugged his head to her chest. He gripped her arms and she felt him tremble.

“I miss him, Dora, I miss him.”

“I know,” she said, her cheek pressed against his hair, “I know.”

Remus took a shuddering breath and looked back at the photo.

“I remember the night we took this. The two of you surprised me down in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. I remember the cake - ”

“ - so much cake - ”

“ - and you and Sirius dancing together.”

“I think we even attempted to serenade you at one point.”

“You did. Extremely poorly.”

“I can’t believe Sirius dug out that old muggle boombox from when you guys were teenagers. It was great though, blasting it round the kitchen, shaking up the cobwebs.”

“He loved that old thing. He brought it to Hogwarts once in third year. He was furious when it wouldn’t work inside the castle so he carried it around Hogsmeade instead. He and James used to dance through the streets, trying to get the villagers to join in.”

Tonks grinned.

“Sirius was a formidable dancer, that’s for sure,” she said. “On New Year’s Eve that time, he twirled me round like he wanted to rip an arm out of a socket. It’s the best way to dance, to be fair.”

Tonks flopped backwards so she was lying down on the bed. When she closed her eyes, she saw sparklers of red and gold, Sirius’ face half-obscured in a candlelit gloom, then felt Remus lie down beside her. She rolled over so their foreheads touched and it was almost as if she could feel Remus’ memories teeming away inside his skull.

“‘Don’t give up on him, Tonks’, he told me. And I didn’t.”

“What would he say to us now?”

“‘Better late than never, Moony!’ Then he’d crack open a celebratory bottle of firewhisky with his teeth.”

“I think you’re probably right,” said Remus, with a sad smile, one of his hands finding hers. “I wish he was here. Not just for us, but for Harry too. And the Order. He was right about Snape all along. We needed Sirius last night - and we’ll need him even more for what’s coming, a harder fight than we’ve ever known before.”

“Dumbledore,” Tonks whispered. “It hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“They may close the school.”

“Yeah. Scrimgeour’s there now. It won’t be long ’til he returns to London and summons the Aurors. If Hogwarts can be infiltrated, what chance has the Ministry got? We need an Order meeting sharpish. We’ve got to figure out how we’re going to win this thing.”

“Dora…we might not - ”

She silenced him with a kiss.

“None of that, thanks. We are going to win. Stranger things have happened. Look at us two.”

Remus said nothing, only smiled a little. Tonks studied his face: the neat features, the flash of grey in the hair that fell not quite to his eyebrows, the taut jawline. As they lay together, sounds began filtering in through the window as the village started to wake. Every laugh, every bang of every door, every footstep, threatened to puncture the bubble of the moment. Tonks wished everyone would stop: wished they’d all return to their houses, hang up their cloaks, crawl back into their beds; wished the birds would shut up; wished the sun would just stay still for once.

“You must be tired,” Remus said, stroking her hair. “Do you want to sleep?”

“I’m still too buzzy. You?”

“The same. Though my body clock has gone a little wrong anyway.”

“How come?”

“The werewolf camp had us keep nocturnal hours.”

“Nocturnal hours? _Why_? That’s mental. ”

“It is. All in the past now though. It won’t take long for me to readjust, I’m sure.”

Tonks frowned.

“It’s hardly the distant past, Remus. You will tell me about it, won’t you?”

“I’d prefer…not now…”

“You don’t have to talk about it now, I just don’t want you bottling it all up forever. I want to hear about what happened to you. You said no secrets.”

“No secrets,” he agreed. “We’ll talk about it, I promise. But are you sure you don’t need to rest? The Ministry could call you in at any time.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Perhaps I should make breakfast. I’m not hungry myself but perhaps you - ”

“No, no - thanks though. If anything, I feel a bit… _ick_. Doesn’t help that I’m all gluey with sweat and bits of Hogwarts and who knows what else. You know that feeling when cleaning spells just aren’t enough? If I’m hankering for anything, it’s for a shower. A really hot one - long enough to turn me into a wrinkly prune.”

“You should have a shower then. You’ll feel better for it.”

_Come with me._

Remus’ hand was on her shoulder, she could feel the light stroke of his fingers against her arm. Their bodies were millimetres apart, the folds of their clothes mingling, her foot rubbing tentatively against his calf.

“You’ll be…alright here?”

“Of course.”

_Come with me._

If she asked him, would he say no? If she didn’t ask him, would she return - towel-clad and dripping - to find a stranger sitting on her bed instead?

“I’m not going to change my mind whilst you’re gone,” said Remus, his eyes searching her face.

Tonks bit her lip.

“I conjured my patronus tonight. I saw your beautiful rabbit with my own eyes and it was…everything I’d never let myself believe could be possible. I trusted it to lead me to you and it did. I’m not going anywhere - not as long as you want me beside you.”

“I’ll always want you.”

The kiss that followed was different: rich with promise, ardent and unstoppable, laced with urgent breathing; telling her that now, now, now was finally the time. Tonks snaked her arms around Remus’ neck and rolled so that he was on top of her. She opened her mouth, raptured, feeling the pressure of his tongue against hers; moving her hands over his chest, parting his robes and fumbling with their clasps. Her hands roved to re-memorize everything: the shape of his shoulder bones, of his strong sinewy arms, of his hard spare torso, even thinner than before. He undid her robes easily and pushed the garment away off her shoulders. She lifted her hips, pushing against him, and he moaned into her neck at the pressure. She gasped too: she was ready, wetly tingling, heady with anticipation. Her hands slid up underneath his shirt, feeling the soft skin erupt in goosebumps. When her fingers reached the ridge of his scar though, he flinched, pausing the kiss. Tonks kept her face close to his, but locked her arms around his neck instead. He moved his weight onto his elbows, no longer pinning her.

“What is it?” She asked, softly.

“I know you don’t want me to be afraid, but…I am.”

He lay on his back. Tonks tucked herself into the nook of his shoulder, looking up into his face.

“You mean, you’re afraid of…having sex again?”

Remus nodded slowly.

“That’s alright,” she said. “Talk to me. We can detangle it. Together.”

The silence that fell was excruciating, but Tonks knew she had to wait. She couldn’t barge in, he had to speak for himself - she only wished her prurient heart would stop hammering.

“My patronus isn’t the only thing that’s changed,” he said at last, staring up at the ceiling, “my boggart is different too. Not long before we were called to the Department of Mysteries, I found one in an old trunk at Grimmauld Place. When it emerged, it didn’t take the form of the full moon. It was you.”

“Me? Crikey. I mean, I know I’m scary but I didn’t realize I was boggart scary…”

Remus didn’t smile.

“You were dying. Bleeding out. You’d been attacked by a werewolf - by _me_. As soon as I saw it, I vowed to myself that I’d never touch you again.”

“Remus, listen to me, that will never happen. We’ll take every precaution at the full moon, there won’t be any risk of you attacking me - none whatsoever. You never got out and attacked Sirius did you? It’ll be just the same with me. The thing is though - and don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to be flippant or anything - what’s that got to do with sex?”

Remus looked at her, confused, as if the answer was obvious.

“Why would anyone want to make love to someone who was capable of doing such a thing?”

“Um, because you yourself _aren’t_ capable of that actually? Because I fancy the pants off you? Because I understand that a transformed werewolf and an untransformed one are completely different beings?”

“But they aren’t completely different beings. Wherever I am, so is the wolf. It’s here, inside me, on this bed next to you. If my teeth ever closed on your skin, the mark would be permanent. Sometimes I…I can’t understand why you even let me touch you, why you let your body be so close to someone who has two bodies - one of which only knows how to destroy and hunt and feast.”

“When I’m with you, all I see is you - the real you who doesn’t have fur or claws, the you who drinks tea and reads books and takes care of people. When your skin’s against mine, it’s _your_ skin I feel. When you’re inside me,” Remus blushed and Tonks smiled, “it’s amazing, just… _amazing_. You think I look at you and think werewolf, but I don’t. I never have. I look at you - whether it’s during an Order meeting, or in a hospital wing, or in some other deeply inappropriate place - and I want us to be naked and alone together right that second, I want the world to fall away. But…even though it might feel that way sometimes….desire isn’t something animal, it’s not inherently evil or destructive, it doesn’t have to be about domination or selfishness - it’s messy and glorious and complicated and world-changing. It’s human. We’re not a werewolf and a non-werewolf, we’re not any of our labels, we’re just us. Remus and Tonks. Two nutters who love each other. Okay?”

Remus’ expression was frozen, almost comically so, in blushing surprise.

“But I’ll wait until that prattle sinks in. I’ll wait however long it takes for you to no longer feel afraid. Right time, right place. I’ll wait until you learn to trust that I don’t care about your condition. And, in the meantime…I’ll learn to trust that you won’t have changed your mind by the time I get out of the shower. No more fear - from either of us. Deal?”

Remus nodded, still wide-eyed.

“I love you more than anything in this world,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “Don’t forget that.”

“I’ll only be gone ten minutes. My memory’s not that terrible.”

Remus shook his head with the faintest of eye-rolls.

“That’s more like it,” she said, kissing him. “I’ve missed your quiet exasperation at me and my crap jokes.”

She bounced off the end of the bed and into the bathroom. She shut the door behind her and, shocked at being so suddenly alone, leant against it. In the mirror opposite she saw herself: staring, with swollen lips and a question in her eyes. How many times had she stood in this exact spot over the past year: staring dully ahead, too apathetic with herself to bother turning the water on? But not this time. Without even getting undressed, Tonks waved her wand and hot water poured down like rain from the ceiling, pummelling the questions (is this real, is everything okay, what happens next?) out of her, making her clothes heavy and sopping.

She peeled everything off, from her ripped jeans to her filthy top and blood-stained socks, pushing them into a puddly corner with her feet. She unhooked her bra and let the water stream down over her breasts, the sensitivity at their tips betraying her longing. At her feet, the water that came off her body was a burnt shade of orange. She groped for her wand in the steam and bubbles infused the water, filling the bathroom air with bright verbena. She dropped her underwear down past her ankles and pushed it to one side with her toes. She scrubbed herself, scouring every corner; trying to ignore the craving that even her rough touch inspired; trying not to think about the fact that only a thin door separated her from Remus. There was a slight burn on her chin from the rub of his chin, a swelling pulse between her legs, a pleasure at the tiniest of accidental pressures.

_You can wait a little longer,_ she said to herself. _You have time. You won’t die today…probably not, anyway. Trust him._

She wasn’t expecting a knock at the door. It made her gasp. It rooted her to the spot. Wordlessly, she opened it for him. She waited, unable to move, barely breathing, as he approached. She felt his body draw close behind her in the falling cascade, felt lips grazing her neck and arms curling around her naked waist; heard a low voice close in her ear.

“No more fear.”

She tipped her head back onto Remus’ bare collarbone, her moan drowned out by the thunder of the water.


	15. Adorations

**Chapter 15: Adorations**

Remus looked at Tonks from the doorway. Clouds of fog curled around her body and hot water travelled in runnels down her spine, dipping and meandering over her shape like a river. Sensation replaced thought and desire rushed through his body, tautening and galvanising him, stripping him of all will except that to step forward into the mist towards her. The air was heavy, humid, rich with some familiar scent; the weight of the water dropped first into his hair, then flowed down over his shoulders and torso, engulfing him as he drew nearer. His lips were the first to touch her.

“No more fear.”

They were her words really; it was she who had given them to him. His hands encircled her, one palm on her stomach, the other on her hip. Tonks leant her head back against him, her body pressed close. Her eyes were closed - he could see the lashes saturated with water droplets - and her mouth was open in an expression he knew he was privileged to witness. He forgot to feel self-conscious about himself; his damaged body; the rigid proof of his longing that nudged her bare flesh, making her moan out the sweetest of sounds. She turned in his arms to look at him, dark blue eyes blazing with life. He smoothed the hair back off her face and she smiled.

“You're here.”

He didn’t reply. He’d lost the ability to speak; rendered dumb by the thunderous swell of love that overwhelmed him as he looked at her, at the sight of the very same love looking back at him. It should have been impossible, but it was happening: her lips, hungry and insistent, kissed his and soon she was welcoming his tongue with her own; her legs were entwining with his; her breasts were pushing against his chest so he felt her nipples hardening against his own skin. He could barely believe it, he could hardly breathe from the pall of water falling all around them, making his head feather-light on his shoulders, sending the white-tiled space spinning. Though both of them were changed, thinner, blooming with battle bruises, the harmony of their melded bodies was just as it was. It should have been impossible but he found that he no longer cared about what was possible, all he cared about was the hitching of her breath against his mouth as he explored the unforgotten landscape of her body. Her touch thrilled him and he didn’t flinch as her hands roved over every inch of him; erasing every scar, both new and old, washing them all away. He wanted to dissolve, to drown in her, to forget all pain.

Her hand reached down and closed around him. A surge of pleasure gripped him, accelerating his yearning so it was almost too much to bear. She began to stroke him and he broke off the kiss; blinking hard and trying not to gasp out loud as she watched him with equal parts wonder and triumph. He took her wrist gently and moved her hand away, responding to her raised eyebrows by backing her against the bathroom wall. He’d promised her everything and that was what he was going to give her. He kissed the curve of her neck, descending to the well of her collarbone, then slowly, slowly, to the soft rises where her breasts began. He wanted to be reacquainted with every freckle, every nook and valley, every corner; to kiss every inch of her. Her back arched against the wall and, looking down, he saw her toes wiggling involuntarily. Remus dropped to his knees. He pressed his lips against the grey curse scar on her stomach, remembering as he did so how she had once done the same for him, long ago, on the first night they’d ever made love. He looked up at her: she was biting her lip, one arm flung over her face. He kissed lower, lower on her stomach down to the fine, sensitive skin beside her hipbone and she shuddered. He ran a hand slowly up from her ankle, around her knee and up to her thigh, which he lifted onto his shoulder.

The inside of her thigh was pillow soft as he kissed gradually closer to the centre of her, grazing the crease at her inner leg, before his lips met hers; inebriating him with a taste he’d never dared let himself remember. She let out a cry and softly, parting her, he moved his tongue in a circular motion, coaxing out the first waves of pleasure, remembering what she used to adore. She trembled, one hand grasping at the wall as if trying in vain to hold on to it. He delved and kneaded with his tongue, tracing slow patterns and spirals, reacquainting himself with her folded curves, tracking every reaction, however small. He knew that surrender didn't come easily to her, that her body tensed at the prospect of a loss of control, but he was patient. Her gasps became moans, she squirmed but he held her steady: she deserved the highest heights of pleasure and he delighted in raising her there. For all his worthlessness, here was one pure thing of good he could give her; here where there was only the raw simplicity of sensation, unshackled from language. Gradually but inexorably, the wave was coming for her. He could taste it. When she came, the room echoed with sound but he kept his movements going, kept massaging every ounce of pleasure from her as her body juddered. When he finally rose to his feet again, she was limp in his arms.

“How did you…? I wanted to…oh wow, Remus. I could have fallen into that feeling forever.”

“This feeling?”

He slid his index and middle finger over the slick crux between her legs and her eyes widened, her head leaning back again against the wall. Deft and focused, he applied pressure, rubbing her softly with the tips of his fingers. Her nails dragged across the skin of his back, but he didn't mind: even the litany of swear words that issued from her mouth were better than the finest music. When she came this time, he was able to watch her face; how she mouthed his name as the tiniest of muscles convulsed beneath his fingertips. He was painfully hard now, craving her so badly he could scarcely think. The shower stopped abruptly.

“The bed,” she said. “Now.”

Without time to even push his sopping air out of his eyes, Tonks dragged him across the room and they fell back onto the bed. The unmade sheets below them were immediately soaked, droplets of water fell from Remus down onto Tonks’ body below him and their wet skin slid together, thighs moist against hips, hands gliding over waists. Her legs parted to admit him and his stiffness nudged against her, its tip immediately wetted with hot viscosity: he was on fire - how easy, how wonderful it would be to push himself inside her.

“You want to?” Tonks asked, with a tremor in her voice.

She was repressing herself, holding her fervour back, waiting for him, knowing the vow he’d once made. But whatever promises Remus had made to himself meant nothing compared to the ones he’d made to her.

“Yes,” he said.

Her eyes never left his as she guided him with her hand. He slid inside slowly, feeling ripples of pleasure spreading over the length of him as each inch eased in deeper, her walls tight and welcoming. He couldn’t stop himself moaning and Tonks, breathless, held the back of his head, still staring into his eyes. He went slowly, it was the only way to keep control of himself, but soon the rhythm overcame him and they began to move together, like waves on a shore, certain and inevitable. The body he hated, that had always ill-fitted and betrayed him, was becoming something new encased within hers. Tonks tilted her hips, hooking a leg over his arm, and he pushed deeper, making her groan. He sank further into the movement, losing any sense of time or place, lost in loving her, feeling only the steady increase of pleasure as his thrusts became more confident and she became louder in his ear.

Tonks turned them and Remus found himself on his back beneath her. Her wet hair wreathed his face like a curtain then she leant away, straightened her back and began to roll her hips. He watched her, enraptured, caressing her shape, holding her breasts as they quivered with the motion; fingers tracing her nipples in a way that made her undulate all the faster. He leant up and kissed them, his tongue flicking over each in turn; feeling the pleasure that joined their bodies at the hips grow even stronger - so insistent and all-encompassing that he had to lie back again. Her eyes flashed with pride as she saw him weakening, just as she herself had done twice earlier. She squeezed him as she rose and fell, his hand roamed down to touch the place where they were fused. His control was slipping away; he said her name, the old and the new; he was going to come and she knew it. The release came in swells and he jerked inside her with a force he’d never known before, feeling like he was floating up out of his body and away. He pulled Tonks down to hold her close, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing hard, seeing phosphenes exploding in the darkness behind his eyelids. Though he couldn’t see Tonks’ face, he knew she was smiling. Their chests rose and fell rapidly together, moist and close. When he was finally able to lift his face from her neck and look at her, he saw that he was right: she was smiling at him, her pale brown hair dishevelled and plastered to her forehead, her eyes bright.

“You’re home with me now,” she whispered. “You’re home.”

He nodded, his throat tight, knowing it was true.

————-

Remus twitched as a rush of cold air disturbed the blanket covering him, chilling his naked body.

“Fuck off, fireplace,” said a muffled voice beside him.

Remus propped himself achingly up on his elbows. A huge black fire was roaring, the flames licking out towards the bed where they lay together. Tonks had wrapped herself up in the sheets, tube-like, with her face in the pillow and her hair in corkscrews. Remus placed a hand on what he had to assume to be her shoulder.

“Dora?”

“No,” she groaned.

“There are black flames. A summons.”

“Shit.”

She raised her head. Her eyes were still half-closed and puffy-lidded, her cheeks patterned with pillow imprints.

“The Auror Department. I have to go.”

She wriggled to free herself, as if from a chrysalis.

“I’ll help you.”

His head throbbed groggily as he stood up, hiding his body with the blanket. He found his wand under the bed - no knowledge of when or how it had tumbled down there - and Tonks’ on the bathroom floor. They should never have allowed their wands to stray beyond arm’s length, he thought, disconcerted. When he returned to her, Tonks was fastening her bra as socks wedged themselves onto her bare feet, a freshening charm zoomed around her body like a swarm of billywigs and her mouth bubbled with toothpaste. She was fully dressed in a matter of seconds: her Auror robes fastened tight to her neck and her badge glinting. Remus hovered, his bare feet chilly on the damp floor, uncomfortably aware of his state of undress.

“I dunno how long I’ll be gone…” Tonks began uncertainly, glancing from him to the fireplace.

“I’ll wait for you here,” he said. “As long as it takes.”

“I’ll give you a head’s up if I can,” she said, rushing over to him and kissing his cheek hard, “I’ll send a note.”

He forced a smile, though loss pinched at his heart as he watched her entering the fireplace. She stopped and chewed her lip, one boot in the flames.

“Don’t…don’t go panicking, will you?”

“Nothing of the sort. I promise.”

Though his voice sounded calm, it was taking all of his self control not to pull her back, block up the chimney for good and lay her down beside him.

“Remember everything we said to each other.”

“Go, Dora. You have to go.”

She left and the flames died, stilling and hushing the room, leaving Remus alone. Anxieties scuttled into his brain, released from their hiding places by Tonks’ absence, taking various shapes: Scrimgeour ordering her on a death mission; Voldemort striking the Ministry of Magic, trapping Tonks in its depths underground; Bellatrix, informed by Snape of her niece’s romantic attachment to a halfbreed, stalking and ambushing her. Remus sank onto the bed. He breathed in the smell of the room: the bed still damp from shower water, the sheets stale with sex, but underpinning it all, comforting and glorious, the smell of her. She would come back to him, she would, and then…and then…

_Don’t go panicking._ He wished she was still here to say that to him, only she could quiet his pounding heart, slow the tingling prickle of terror in his stomach. But he knew he mustn’t burden her with his fear. He needed to squash down every worry, conceal every doubt, choose instead to bring her joy for every single day he had left. He wasn’t long for the world, he knew that. Without Dumbledore, the old crowd’s days were numbered. He didn’t know how it would happen - the rush of a death curse in the midst of battle, the final mercy after long torture, by his own hand if captured - but until it did he would dedicate himself to keeping her alive, so she could witness the new world she so badly wanted to build. He would love her and he would fight: the two pillars of his life, however short it might be.

Resolving this gave Remus the strength to stand, wash, dress and look around the room. It had just passed noon and the attic was in disarray: water had seeped under the bathroom door, puddled across the kitchen tiles and the Daily Prophet tower had slumped into it; grime on the window blocked out the summer sun, and mould spotted the flaking paint on the upper walls. Remus scoured the lot, from floor to ceiling, then flicked his wand to make the bedsheets, blankets and pillows dance in a twister of washing charms. Mildred bumped her beak on the window and Remus let her settle on his shoulder while he corrected the wobble that afflicted the kitchen table.

Remus stared at the re-erected stack of newspapers. He knew he would find no joy within their pages, but the words called out to him all the same. He took a seat, plucked out an issue from the second of January and began to read - Mildred, soon bored, flew off for an afternoon hunt. Hours passed as he turned and turned the sticky crumpled pages, eyes devouring day after day. When he reached the story of the Montgomery child he stopped and covered his face with shaking hands. _“Bring him down”_ , Tonks had said in the Hospital Wing and Remus clenched his fists: next time his curse wouldn’t miss, next time he would finish what he had started…At that moment, a letter flitted out of the fireplace written in the code of the Order of the Phoenix.

_Will try to escape by nine. I love you, don’t forget._

Remus blinked down at the message, hearing Tonks’ voice in his head. He would love her and he would fight. There was a place for each, a time for each - and today was for her. He cut out the story of the little boy’s murder and tucked it into his robes - he wouldn’t let himself forget - then he vanished the stack of papers, dispelling them and their shrieking headlines into nonbeing. In Tonks’ kitchen cupboards, Remus found only warm beer cans and tins of beans on otherwise empty shelves. She hadn’t been taking care of herself properly. _Well_ , he thought, pulling on his shoes, _it’s time to put a stop to that._ He was going to find out what he could buy with thirty sickles.

Out in the streets of Hogsmeade, every face was shocked and sombre; many of the villagers were dressed in black. Remus kept his eyes on the cobbled pavements, fading himself into the walls. The silver coins were heavy in his pocket, jangling against his leg as he walked, reminding him they were all he had. But he wouldn’t be dissuaded and, once he’d parted with the first of the coins, spending the rest became easy. The door bells tinkled as he - swift, polite, ensuring he was never worth a second glance from the proprietors - travelled from shop to shop. In Ferg and Farrow, he bought an onion bigger than his hand, bushels of spinach, swelling bulbs of garlic, aromatic herbs. From the bottle shop, sweet-smelling and dusty, he chose a bottle of wine. He tracked down fresh pasta, cream and - eschewing the butcher’s with its red slabs of oozing flesh - fillets of Scottish salmon wrapped in brown paper. He hesitated over the final coins until, passing by a shop window bedecked in a rainbow of patisserie, he pictured Tonks happily licking cake crumbs off her fingers and settled on a brimming pair of eclairs. With his pockets emptied, all that remained to him was to head into the hills for wildflowers.

Remus placed the bouquet, exploding with colour, in the centre of the table; conjured wax candles and scattered them around the room; lit a fire and enchanted the flames to give off cool, fresh air. Then he began to cook. With every chop, every pinch of salt, every little stir, he felt a growing excitement: this was nice, this was normal, this was the kind of thing an ordinary boyfriend would do. When the steaming bowls were ready, he suspended them in a preserving bubble so they would be perfect on her arrival. As he waited, he listened to a record on repeat; letting the music from his mother’s old player wash over him, letting the rhythm and nostalgia of it transport him, distract him. At half past nine, Tonks tripped into the room - and the expression on her face made every last knut worth it.

“You…you…,” her eyes were like saucers, “you’ve made it all lovely in here and…oh crikey, you cooked dinner! And there are _flowers_! Oh, bloody hell, Remus - this is amazing!”

He laughed and she threw herself into his arms.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” she said, beaming up at him.

“How was the Ministry?”

“Can’t remember. Too hungry to think.”

They sat down together and Tonks devoured every scrap, heaping seconds and thirds onto her plate. Remus ate slowly, stealing glances at her. Afterwards, Tonks sat back in her chair with one hand on her stomach.

“Alright, so…the Ministry,” she said, taking a swig of wine from her mug, “absolute bin fire. Scrimgeour’s doing his best, but his best involves a lot of tough guy posturing. We spent most of the day raiding the last known addresses of the Death Eaters who attacked the castle, but everywhere’s been cleared out, wiped clean of any clues. I suggested we hit Malfoy Manor but Robards said Scrimgeour suspects that’s where you-know-who himself is holed up, so it would be suicide to even _attempt_ breaking the protection charms on that place. We don’t have the numbers for an all-out assault - not that it’s gonna come to that anyway. The Death Eaters won’t waste their time on a full-blown attack to take control of the Ministry, not when some well-placed infiltration will do the trick. Scrimgeour’s going to have to swallow his pride and ally with the Order. But he seems to think Harry will finally start working for him.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“So do I. Scrimgeour’s surrounding himself with people he thinks he can trust…Robards, Thicknesse, Dawlish…but…I’ve got a bad feeling…it’s like a house of cards…”

“And Hogwarts?”

“Staying open. We’re keeping a guard of Aurors here in Hogsmeade - not including me, thank Merlin - but…without Dumbledore, keeping the other side out of the castle isn’t gonna be easy.”

“Even when the war was at its worst last time, Hogwarts and the Ministry held on. If we lose one, it will be unprecedented. If we lose both…insurmountable.”

“But not hopeless,” said Tonks, scraping her chair closer to his. “The Order is strong - small, yeah, but strong - and we’ve got _Harry_. He and Dumbledore were having private lessons together all year. Even on the night he died, they were away doing…something. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left Harry some kind of instructions - maybe even a plan.”

“Whatever it is, Harry can’t possibly do it alone. He’s only sixteen. I remember…” he paused to gather himself, “I remember when he was small enough to wrap his whole hand around my thumb.”

Tonks squeezed his hand.

“You’ll see him soon. At the funeral. They told us today it will be the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh,” was all Remus could say.

“I managed to wrangle permission to attend.”

“Good…that’s - that’s good. You’ll be part of the Ministry contingent.”

“No. You need me more than those clowns do,” she touched his face, “nothing could drag me away from your side.”

He kissed the top of her head and she leant forward to hold him. Minutes past until he felt able to speak again. Then he remembered the eclairs.

“You don’t need to buy my forgiveness for being a prat all year with baked goods, you know,” said Tonks, sinking her teeth into the pastry and getting cream on her nose, “but I’ll take it. Wait…how much did all this cost?”

A blush crept up Remus’ neck.

“I’ll cover it,” she said.

“No. Certainly not.”

“Oh come on - I just got promoted, remember? I should pay.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Halfsies at least?”

Tonks must have noticed the look on his face.

“Okay fine,” she added quickly, “next one’s on me though - and it won’t be nearly as good as this. I’m lousy in the kitchen compared to you.”

“Anything’s better than what I’ve been used to.”

“And what was that?”

“Boiled meat stew,” he said, after a pause, “and white spirit so strong it sears the stomach - twice a day, just after sunset and just before sunrise.”

“Can I ask you something?” Said Tonks, pushing her scraped-clean plate away, and continuing before he could respond, “Was your name Alban?”

The very sound of it made him want to shrink away from her. He looked down at his hands, half expecting to see bloodied knuckles, nails dark with mud.

“How - how did you come to hear that name?”

“It’s the name Mara used when I tried to help her,” said Tonks.

“You met Mara? When? Greyback told me she died…”

“She did,” said Tonks. “I’m sorry. Aberforth summoned me just after you dropped her off in his cellar. We gave her a bezoar and got her to St Mungo’s, but…”

Remus listened intently, frozen in his seat, as Tonks told him what had happened.

“The poison was intended to kill the spy,” said Remus, leaning forward and running his hand through his hair. “By rights, it should have been me - and only me - to die. To this day, I still don’t understand how I…” Remus noticed that Tonks was wearing a strange expression - eyebrows slightly raised, chewing a nail, “it was _you_ ,” he breathed, “you saved me. But… _how_?”

Tonks explained it all - from her confrontation in the Werewolf Capture Unit office, to her face-off with Snape in the dungeons; to Dumbledore and his box of living lights. And so, Remus realized, Tonks had been with him in more than just memory, she’d been fighting for his life all along. She had been his strength even though he - Remus glanced at her hair which still fell, pale and limp, around her shoulders - had been her weakness.

“…after that, I became even more desperate for any scrap of information about you,” Tonks finished. “I figured if I rescued you once, I could do it again. But there was nothing, not a peep out of you, until the patronus. I know it must be hard to talk about, but…will you? I want to know what it was like - living there, pretending to be someone else?”

He didn’t want her to know. He didn’t want to tell her. But after everything she’d endured on his behalf, he knew he owed it to her and - before he had even prepared himself or decided upon the right words - the first lonely details started pouring out of him: Silver’s nightly speeches, slicing open his flesh to conceal his wand, the cold palette he’d shared with Section Eight. She listened, her eyes wide - hungry but without judgement, biting back any interruption - and soon he was describing all the dark, despicable, low things he’d done or seen or felt: how he’d violated Mason’s mind with a memory charm; how they’d buried the murdered Dom in an anonymous hole in the ground; how Remus had fought until he’d felt flesh break under his fist. He told her about Jem - so lost, so young, so furious - and Cariad, who had only ever wanted a place to belong. When he finally fell silent, an odd, incomplete sort of grief settled upon him. And his old familiar shame. He jumped a little in surprise when Tonks lightly kissed him and cupped his cheek in her hand.

“Life will be a thousand times better for werewolves after the war. We're going to make sure of it, you and me.”

Later, when Tonks was in the bathroom, Remus looked around at the attic, not seeing it as it was, but seeing instead a little house. A little house where Tonks’ things weren’t squashed into boxes but strewn everywhere - her personality spangling every room - and the walls were lined, from rugs to rafters, with books. A place where he and Tonks could wile away lazy mornings, their memories of war fading day after day, until they became more like frightening stories heard long ago in childhood. A place where time could stretch on and on.

“You even tidied up in here!” Tonks yelled.

“I try to be thorough.”

“I never thought I’d end up with a neat freak, honestly,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her, “my mum’s gonna love you.”

The fantasy of the little house vanished, sucked out of his imagination as if down a plughole.

“Were you…planning on telling her? About us?”

Tonks’ smile wobbled.

“Um…” she started, and Remus’ stomach sank to his feet, “I actually…already have. Not about _this_ ,” she said, gesturing between the two of them, “obviously, but they kept badgering me about my morphing and I felt guilty about…everything, so I ended up telling them that I’d fallen in love with you. And that you’d left…”, she trailed off.

“Did you tell them what I am?”

She raised her chin.

“I told them that you’re witty and kind, that you’re one of the Order’s very best - that you were Sirius’ closest friend.”

“You know what I’m asking,” he said, a little colder than he would have liked.

“They were fine about it,” she said, quickly, eyes flicking around his face. “Fine about you being a werewolf.”

“They were? Truly?”

“Yeah!”

_She’s lying._

But Remus stifled the treacherous thought. He had to trust her, they’d promised to trust each other.

“I mean, no one wants their kid to get dumped, do they?” Tonks went on, quickly. “That part didn’t go down so well.”

“Of course not. I’m sure they’re disgusted with my behaviour, they must be wondering - ”

“If I can forgive you, so can they,” she cut across him, “they’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I'm sure they’d prefer you to be with someone - ”

But Tonks had marched over to him and stopped his words with her hand.

“Stop worrying! It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Our relationship is for us. No one else - just me and you!”

“We’re not alone in the world, Dora.”

“We’re alone in _this_ world,” she said, stepping back from him and stretching her arms out wide, “and one day we’ll be as free out there as we are in here.”

“You’re an idealist. And you’re too good for me.”

She rolled her eyes and made to cover his mouth again, but he stopped her and pulled her into an embrace instead, making her twist and giggle in his arms, her eyes sparkling.

“So good,” he said. “So beautiful…”

She kissed him with all her passion and whatever else he’d planned to say abandoned him. Intimacy with her was as dazzling, as overawing as it had been that morning. Heat flared between them and soon his back was against the wall and he was pulling her hard against him, yearning for the impossible, imminent pleasure of her body, and her hands were already tearing at his clothes - pulling on buttons, dragging at zips - as he realized that he was hard and ready for her. He undid the silver clasp at her neck so her Ministry robes pooled on the floor at their feet. Removing her clothes himself was a marvel and he began peeling away the layers that divided them. There was no time to reach the bed so they sank to the floor.

The firelight danced on Tonks’ skin, the tiles were cold against Remus’ back, he stroked her thighs as she straddled him and opened his mouth with hers. But soon, she was edging downwards and, before he could react, fastening her hot, wet mouth over the tip of him. He tried to pull her back up - she wasn’t supposed to be doing this, it was all meant to be for her - but the pleasure of it conquered him utterly and rendered him capable of no more than stroking her hair as she moved seamlessly up and down, enveloping him in her mouth. It didn’t take long until he was on the cusp.

“I want you now. I need you,” he told her, his voice cracking slightly.

She released him with tantalising slowness.

“I know you do,” she said, with a wicked smile.

The world became a blur, became only the meeting of their two bodies, and Remus wanted nothing else; could imagine nothing else. They rolled together, pressing each other, ardent and gasping, into new positions: the bruising of his spine, knees and elbows against the hard floor just a faint, sweet ache compared to the pleasure that soared through him with every propulsion. She told him she loved him, she told him harder, and he obliged until they came together: she with a cry louder than ever as his nimble fingers elicited spasms; he with one arm holding her, pressing his face into her hair, bent around her like a speech mark, buried deep inside. What followed was an incomparable peace. They weren’t on the floor of an attic in Hogsmeade, they were upstairs in the little house built for two, living only for each other because they were free to.

Remus couldn’t shake off a giddy dizziness, even when they were getting ready for bed. He bumped his head on one of the low beams, making Tonks laugh and bounce across the bed in her socks to kiss his temple. They stood next to one another as they cleaned their teeth. They placed their wands down on the twin bedside tables - one side for Remus, the other for Tonks. They put the lights out and hunkered down under the sheets together, her wriggly frame enclosed in his arms.

——-

It was hours later, deep into the night, when Remus’ eyes snapped open. He was wide awake and his heart was racing. He’d missed something, forgotten something, the abyss was back and things were falling down all around him: he was aware of the moon, shining somewhere beyond the curtain, like death itself pressing its face against the window. It was so dark Remus couldn’t see the ceiling. He felt certain that, if he stretched out his hand, it would meet hard unyielding wood mere inches from his face. His arm was dead and tingling, pinned beneath Tonks. He gently removed it and she snuffled and turned on her side, but didn’t wake. Remus’ mouth was dry and his breath shuddered with dread. He focused on her warm, invisible presence beside him: the sound of her breathing, her twitching toes, her ears, her belly button, her eyelashes. He was right where he was supposed to be, he told himself, repeating it until his mind drifted away into broken sleep.

When he woke again in the morning, the first thing he saw was Tonks’ sleepy grin across the same pillow and he forgot the night’s shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading xxx
> 
> 1: I want to send love to everyone reading this - especially those feeling sad or angry or unheard right now - and wish you all a very happy Pride Month. The Harry Potter series is - and should be - a beacon for compassion, empathy and social justice; a cry against bigotry, prejudice and ignorance in all its forms. Harry Potter belongs to its fans and always will.
> 
> 2: I can’t believe we’ve made it this far, but the next chapter will be the FINAL chapter in Shadow Boxing. Writing and sharing my writing with you amazing people has been a rare joy in what I know has been a difficult and scary time for all of us. You are genuinely the loveliest readers anyone could hope for and I feel thankful for each and every one of you.


	16. Metamorphoses

**Chapter 16: Metamorphoses**

Tonks yanked open the curtains. Contrary to all rationality, she was awake: something had jolted her out of sleep and refused to let her slide back in again. She sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed and peered round at Remus. Half-nestled into the pillow, his face was serene in sleep; slack and unworried in a way rarely seen when he was conscious. She wouldn’t wake him. Not yet.

She opened the window and let a faint breeze dance into the room. The morning air caressed the bare skin of her legs and travelled through the slouching fibres of her t-shirt, as if wanting to lift her up into the sky. Tonks closed her eyes. The sun burned a deep red behind her eyelids. She breathed, feeling the lift and drop of her ribs; the rhythmic insistence of her heart; the vast map of tiny pores and follicles that dotted her flesh from scalp to heels. Here was her body. It had clawed its way through the year. It - _she_ \- had survived.

Tonks dipped her head and frowned slightly. Her spine tingled as something tumbled down her back, tickled her thighs and pooled in her lap. When she opened her eyes, the world was pink. She was surrounded by sheaves of vividest neon, made luminous by sunlight. Raising her head, she parted the waves with her hands and began stroking the thick, smooth locks; bunching them in her fists, pressing them against her cheek and fluttering them with her gasping, thankful breath. She furrowed her brow again and again, letting daisy yellow, electric blue, lilac, tangerine, duck egg, scarlet, candy floss flow all around her, then shrank it back to millimetres and ran her hands over the bumps of her skull. Ignoring the faint rip as she dragged off her t-shirt, she stared down at her stomach and watched the scar Bellatrix had branded onto her skin fade away, before vanishing the puckered red line on her arm from Greyback’s claw. A sob rose in Tonks’ chest but by the time it left her mouth it had become a laugh.

“Remus,” she said, groping for the lumps of his feet under the duvet and joggling them. “Wake up!”

He slept on, oblivious. Tonks shuffled on her knees across the bed and straddled him.

“Remus! Look!”

He stirred, smiling sleepily at the sight of her perched on top of him, then his eyes widened and he sat up, raising a hand to the pink waves she sent cascading down onto his chest.

“Your hair…your _morphing_ …Dora!”

“It’s back! I’m back!”

She let it spiral into tight ringlets in his hands, flow poker-straight through his fingers, then retreat all the way back up into her old faithful: short, pink and spiky.

“How do you feel?” He asked, kissing the base of her quiff.

“Like myself. Fucking _great_.”

She flopped onto her back, conjured a mirror and floated it above her face. Kicking her legs in delight, she watched her nose balloon and mutate into all her old party tricks, wiggled her fingers and toes, turning every nail jet black. Within a few quick blinks, her eyelashes had darkened to match, fluttering with extra length. She squinted, tweaking her face just the way she liked it. Remus watched her.

“Dora…”, Tonks didn’t need to look at him to know he was no longer smiling, “I hope you know that you were beautiful without your morphing ability too. Don’t mistake me, I’m pleased for you - and unutterably relieved - but I would hate to think that you felt the need to make any changes on my behalf.”

“It’s all for me,” she said, meeting her own eyes in the mirror, “it always has been.”

She sat up, ruffling and ruffling her hair, unable to keep her fingers off it, but just then a thought struck her.

“It’s not inappropriate, is it?”

“No,” said Remus, touching her cheek, “Dumbledore would have wanted you to attend in all your colours. That was the kind of man he was.”

Tonks linked her fingers through his and leant against him, nuzzling into his neck.

“Today’s going to be okay,” she said. “I’ll be right there beside you.”

——

They set off early to avoid the crowds, retreading the dappled woodland path that led from the village to the castle where the light fell through the trees in aqueous shafts, before passing the deserted stands of the Quidditch pitch. The lake glittered into view and they saw hundreds of chairs laid out in rows along its banks, all facing an immense marble table that glowed platinum in the sun. A small group of guests was already clustered in the aisle. A figure broke off and made a jerky beeline towards them, wand outstretched, one perfectly circular eye hopping from Remus to Tonks.

“Wotcher, Mad Eye,” Tonks called.

“Identify yourselves!”

Tonks changed her hair from pink to blue and back again.

“And this is the real Remus, you’re just gonna have to trust me on that.”

“It’s good to see you, Alastor.”

“You do know you’re not going to be able to interrogate every single guest that turns up, right? You’ll get turfed out by whoever’s here representing Magical Law Enforcement. Saying that, I’d quite like to see them try…”

“Be prepared,” Mad Eye barked, ignoring her, “that means hands on wands at all times and don’t hesitate to fire if you spot any funny business - stun first, ask questions later. I wouldn’t put it past the Death Eaters to try and turn this funeral into a bloodbath. It wasn’t enough for them to slaughter Albus Dumbledore in his own school, they’ll be wanting to desecrate his final resting place too,” Mad Eye’s mouth twisted, his regular eye blinking, “cowards…murderers…”

Tonks stepped forward and dragged him into a hug, slapping the solid hulk of his back which was draped, as ever, in the same old ratty cloak.

“We’ll be vigilant,” said Remus.

“Morphing again?” Asked Mad Eye, shrugging her off.

Tonks made a frame of her spiky head with her hands.

“Good,” he said gruffly, giving her a hard pat to the shoulder.

“Oh! Tonks!”

Molly was hurrying over to join them.

“Look at you!” She exclaimed, cupping Tonks’ face in her hands. “I’ve changed my mind about the pink, you know. I think it looks lovely, just lovely. And…here’s Remus…”

Molly pressed his hand, looking eagerly at them both.

“ _Well_? Are the two of you…?”

Tonks grinned and looked up at Remus to see him blush and smile too.

“Oh! I knew it!” Cried Molly, chivvying them both into a hug. “I knew you’d see sense!”

“I think I can claim some credit for this,” said a new voice.

“Bill!”

Tonks ducked out of Molly’s arms and slammed into him.

“Oof - mind the bandages!”

“Sorry, mate, sorry,” she said, drawing back to look at him.

His face was still swollen. Raw and shiny, it was split in multiple places by crimson lacerations and angry lesions, no sign yet of scabbing. One eye was half-closed and a smell of healing ointment wafted in the air each time he moved, but he was Bill: tall, his bun dripping with messy strands of fiery hair and, at his side, Fleur; her silver hair resplendent in the sun, a knock-out in a simple black dress. She kissed Tonks on both cheeks.

“La victoire,” she whispered in her ear.

Tonks responded with a wink.

“How are you feeling?” Remus asked Bill in a low voice.

Bill shrugged.

“The pain’s not so bad now. Madam Pomfrey discharged me today, so it’s back to the Burrow. I’ll never be in the running for Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award, but…”

“I ‘ave seen no signs of wolfishness,” said Fleur, stroking his sleeve, “my Bill only wishes for meat cooked in ze French style! At ze full moon, we will have tartare aller-retour. Tonks, you must join us, of course.”

“Oh - thanks! Er…”

Tonks hesitated. While Fleur was speaking, she had felt Remus twitch beside her but, when she glanced at him, it was as if he couldn’t even hear them. His eyes were calm and blank, only a thin shadowed line between his eyebrows betraying any emotion. They hadn’t discussed what would happen at the next full moon - where Remus would go, how Tonks would help him - nor had Tonks questioned him about his polite, but sudden, avoidance of eating meat. But the moment was broken by the arrival of Dedalus Diggle who bopped into their midst, eagerly shaking hands with them all. New guests were starting to arrive in droves and Tonks aimed a quick wave at Finlay Savage, but he had eyes only for Remus, stonily assessing him from head to foot. Tonks chewed her lip. He must have seen them leaving the village together.

“You should join your colleagues,” said Remus, almost inaudible, “they’re staring.”

“They can stare ’til their eyes bleed. I’m staying with you.”

When they took their seats, Tonks reached over to hold Remus’ hand. He looked at her uncertainly, but she only smiled back: asking him silently to let her, not to pull away. The funeral began with an odd gulping noise and Tonks craned her neck to see Hagrid. His face was crumpled in a fruitless effort to hold back the great globes of tears that splashed down into the velvet folds of the purple, gold-starred shroud he carried in his arms. Somehow, impossibly, Dumbledore's glossy white beard, his brain once so alive with genius and whimsy, his long fingers that used to steeple themselves so wisely on his desk, were all concealed in the delicate burden that Hagrid laid down on the marble table. Remus’ hand quivered in hers and she covered it with her other hand, squeezing it tight. But, even during the eulogy, the mask of composure that was Remus’ face did not fall. Sometimes trying to read him was like trying to glimpse the sky during a downpour. She knew she needed to be patient, that two nights weren’t enough for him to break the habit of a lifetime…but she couldn’t stop herself hoping that one day soon she’d figure out the right combination of words to explode his insecurities; to grant him the confidence to be himself all the time; to scrape out every last crumb of self-hatred.

Screams rang out and Tonks jumped in her seat: the marble table had erupted into flames. She stared, unblinking, into the smoke, her nostrils prickling with the smell of it. There was something there, something rising, twisting hypnotically into a shape like a bird, a bird with feathers of smoke - but it vanished before Tonks could be certain it wasn’t her imagination. There was a twang of bowstrings, a rushing overhead and Tonks saw arrows cutting the sky. Her heart lifted, rose to chase them as they powered away into the blue distance: so bold, so defiant. Even when the funeral guests began to mutter and shuffle, Tonks still gaped at the point into which they’d vanished; as if the arrows had been carrying some kind of message she’d been too slow to read. She turned to Remus, but he was watching the back of the Minister for Magic’s head. When Scrimgeour rose, Remus dropped her hand.

“Lock-in at the Hog’s Head,” Mad Eye muttered in her ear.

———-

Mad Eye’s protection charms blackened every window and clogged even the tiniest of cracks, submerging the pub in gloom, the only light emanating from the crooked, wax-lined candles on the grubby tables. The flickering shadows leant the dusty room a timeless quality: it could have been the middle of the night, the depths of winter, any year in the pub’s long history. Aberforth took his position behind the bar and began to pull pints. The assembled Order members - absent only the Hogwarts professors - were red-eyed, but quick to smile, oddly charged by the funeral’s afterglow. They formed a circle and smudged glasses of house ale floated into each of their hands.

“Albus Dumbledore,” said Mad Eye, his electric blue iris pointed at the door, “raise a glass.”

“The finest wizard in ten generations.”

“Great man. Lousy brother.”

“A wonderful teacher - the greatest Headmaster that Hogwarts has ever known.”

“A legendary transfigurist, an astounding duellist, the kindest of men.”

“The best Minister for Magic that never was.”

“'elped me out of a tight spot he did once…”

“A friend to muggles.”

“- and to muggle sweets.”

“A staunch believer in love.”

“Our protector.”

They spoke his name and drank: Mad Eye swigging from his hipflask, Tonks fishing a beerfly out of her pint before taking a gulp, Fleur spitting her ale back into her glass with a quiet splash. A silence fell, broken only by the occasional clatter of small hooves. The Order needed to step into Dumbledore’s shoes, to become collectively what he had been for them - how else could they survive? Dumbledore would want them to cling to hope, even whilst mourning him. So before the circle crumbled into individual conversations, Tonks raised her glass to the centre once more.

“Let’s toast to Bill,” she said. “For the speediest of recoveries and the jolliest of weddings.”

“What about a toast to the two of you?” He replied, grinning. “Remus and Tonks - against all odds.”

“If zat is not what we are fighting for, I don’t know what is,” said Fleur.

“Here here!” Said Molly, waving a handkerchief. “Dumbledore would be proud.”

The room felt warm, wonderfully so, and Tonks felt a pleasurable wriggle in her stomach. She looped her arm around Remus who blushed even harder than he had that morning. She went up on her toes to kiss his cheek and Dedalus Diggle began applauding. Even Aberforth raised a bristled, white eyebrow. _Look_ , she wanted to shout at Remus, _look at how delighted they are for us! Isn’t it obvious now this is where you belong?_ But she could only beam at him and clasp his uncharacteristically clammy hand as they were congratulated.

“I always suspected there was something between you and Lupin,” Kingsley said to Tonks a few minutes later.

“Subtlety’s not my strong point,” she said and Kingsley chuckled. “How’s the muggle prime minister?”

“Blustering, misleading the public, regurgitating soundbites…magical or mundane, politicians are politicians. It’s good to be away from Downing Street, but I can’t afford to be gone for than a few hours. Auror Duffie’s taken over in my absence. We’ve had an imperiused cat, a surveillance charm put on the Foreign Secretary’s signet ring, the MP for Islington North confunded…

“At least it’s more interesting than trundling around Hogsmeade day after day.”

“From what I’ve heard, you’ve achieved far more than that. It was about time you were promoted. There’ll be bigger assignments coming your way soon.”

“I can't wait,” she said, honestly.

“Being in a couple can provide a degree of security,” said Mad Eye abruptly, once Kingsley had turned to speak with Arthur, “if they track you down, at least you’re in a ready-made duelling pair, better able to defend yourselves. I’ve known Lupin since he was a lad of eighteen - he can fight, that’s for sure. But I won’t beat around the bush. You’re both well aware of the price you’ve placed on your heads. If this reaches her - and no doubt it will through the traitor Snape - Lestrange will be out for your blood.”

Tonks shot a glance towards the bar where Remus stood with Bill and saw him incline his head slightly, listening. She willed Mad Eye to shut up.

“Take watch every night, sleep in shifts. Being in a couple didn’t help the Potters or the Longbottoms or the - ”

“Alright, alright. I get the picture, Mad Eye. Sleep with one eye open, gruesome murder is waiting just around the corner, it’s later than we think, blah blah blah. I know you’re happy for us really.”

“As long as you’ve got pulses in your necks, I’m happy for you. Just don’t go doing anything witless.”

Tonks and Remus exchanged a look from across the room. His cheeks were hollowed in the candlelight, his eyes intense, unreachable. She wanted to be alone with him. She needed to lay him down in the little world they’d created together, coax a smile from that haunted face, remind him of the rightness of their decision. But the noise of the pub, its clamour of voices and clinking glasses, divided them. Would it always be like this? An endless tug of war with her on one side and Remus’ demons on the other? The rewards so sweet, but her hands always burning from the rope?

She looked to his left and saw Bill laughing as Fleur poured him a glass of deep red wine, one hand stroking his wounded cheek. Bill’s words from the beach came back to her, “ _we’re part of each other,_ ” he’d said, “ _we’re each other’s._ ” She remembered how her friend’s body had convulsed in the flashing hell of the battle, the certainty she’d felt in that moment that every memory and nerve that made Bill, Bill, was sputtering out of him with every pint of blood. She remembered too how she and Remus had been mere inches from oblivion themselves; how their bodies had bumped together as they dodged the curses that would have turned them cold, would have consigned them to merge in the earth instead of in her bed. They were lucky and that luck needed to be celebrated. They needed to wring every drop of joy from the new life they’d earned. But how to convince him he deserved it?

An eardrum-busting _smash_ : Tonks’ ale hit the floor and exploded in a flying wreck of liquid and shards. The whole room ducked, every wand was drawn, and silver walls of shield charms sprang up all across the pub. Tonks’ heart was racing, but not because she’d dropped her glass.

“Don’t worry - it was my pint, just my pint! Slipped through my fingers…sorry guys…as you were…”

“Dora, you look like you’ve been petrified,” said Remus, immediately beside her, vanishing the mess at her feet. “Are you alright?”

A mindless, giddy smile spread over her face as she looked at him. A dazzling kernel of a plan was forming inside her. Why the hell hadn’t she thought of it before?

“I…I'm just a clumsy lunatic.”

He studied her face for a moment, handsome in his bemusement. When he was satisfied she hadn’t been jinxed, he whispered so only she could hear:

“I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“Time for business,” said Mad Eye, signalling for silence.

“It brings me no joy to say this, but you’ve got an uphill struggle on your hands,” said Aberforth.

It was one of the longest meetings the Order of the Phoenix ever had: the hours stretching and dragging as every method, strategy and possible date for extracting Harry from the Dursley’s to the Burrow was debated. When the never-ending chorus of ideas and rejections resulted in more than one fist bashed upon the table (Fleur, Mad Eye), drinks downed in one (Bill, Mundungus) and heads sunk into hands (Molly, Kingsley), Remus quietly suggested they pause deliberations and return to the next meeting with renewed pitches. A round of stale meat pies later and they’d moved onto recruitment, stemming the flow of Death Eater infiltration into the Ministry and how best to guard individuals at particular risk from torture. Tonks rubbed her eyes as Mad Eye finally raised their last item.

“It’s time to elect a new leader.”

“Er, Mad Eye, we’re looking at him,” said Tonks.

“Without a vote, the risk of mutiny increases tenfold.”

“All in favour of Moody as Head Honcho?”

“Aye,” the room chorused.

“All against?”

A hush, except for a faint bleating.

“That’s that then,” said Mad Eye with a grim nod. “Lupin, you’ll be my second.”

“Alastor, I really don’t think - ”

“Aye!” The room chorused, unprompted.

“Of course it should be you,” said Tonks, kissing his cheek fiercely.

—————

It was dark by the time they were alone again in their attic. Mildred had departed for her nightly hunt and the sight of her deserted perch reminded Tonks that she still hadn’t written to her parents. She’d do it tomorrow, she told herself: she’d tell them everything and arrange for them to meet Remus. As soon as they witnessed for themselves his dignity, his compassion, his love for her, the little white lie she’d told him would become the truth.

“The Order, they…they seemed happy for us, didn’t they?”

“One hundred percent,” said Tonks, pushing the thought of her parents out of her head and hugging Remus from behind. “That shouldn’t come as a surprise, you know.”

“It’s just a little strange for me, that’s all.”

“Nice strange?”

“Wonderful strange. My entire life has been blessed with wonderful strangeness ever since you took me back. I only hope that…”

“What?” Tonks prompted, with a little squeeze to his waist.

“That what we’ve built can endure what’s coming. Everything is about to change, Dora.”

“Why?” She said, spinning him around to face her. “Are you going to start bossing me around now that you’re second-in-command?”

He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop a smile.

“I value my limbs too much to dare,” he replied.

It was a sensible moment to talk about where they were going to live (she was hoping he would say yes to London), but Remus was kissing her and Tonks’ brain had gone fuzzy.

“Dora…”

“Mmm,” she replied, dizzy with the tender motion of his lips; the intimate taste of him.

“If I die in this war,” he said, cradling her face, “if they kill me - ”

“Don’t say things like that,” said Tonks, wincing. “I hate it.”

“You’ll be the last thing on my mind. I want you to know that.”

“I happen to think that you’ll be a fine old age when you finally kick the bucket. We’ll be a pair of grumpy, wrinkled old sods telling everyone who’ll listen about our glory days back in the war.”

“I’m sure Lily and James predicted something similar for themselves.”

Tonks wriggled out of his embrace.

“Trust Mad Eye to fill you with morbid thoughts.”

“He only said what I was already thinking. He’s right about Bellatrix.”

“So my psycho aunty’s got something else to bung on her already long list of reasons to kill me. It really doesn’t make much difference.”

“She’ll have to kill me first.”

“Enough already! I’m serious. I don’t want your head in the grave, I want it here with me. I want us to live,” she tugged the front of his robes, encircled her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his, “like this.”

He stroked the pink tips of her hair and Tonks closed her eyes, leaning her cheekbone against his.

“You’re right,” he said. “Forgive me. Morbidity comes with old age.”

“You’re not old, don’t be stupid.”

“I feel old.”

“You don’t feel old to me…”

Her lips brushed his neck then opened to kiss him deeply, her tongue pressing the silver line of a scar above his pulse. He shut his eyes, grimacing as if in pain but exhaling in unmistakeable pleasure. Soon they were melting together: breaths combining in eager kisses, fingers travelling over layers of fabric in anticipation of their removal, shivers dancing down each nodule of Tonks’ spine as Remus’ fingers touched the bare nape of her neck. The thin veil that kept their desire at bay dissolved and they succumbed to the yearning that ruled every minute they spent alone; the addiction that Remus described as a dream but Tonks thought felt more real than anything else in the world. Without breaking the kiss, Remus lifted her: Tonks wrapped her legs around his waist, tugging hard on his hair, forgetting herself and biting his lower lip ever so softly; making him almost stumble as he carried her to the bed and draped her gently down.

She ripped at her clothes, arching her back as she tore them down the middle with magic at her fingertips - drawing her legs up to rip away her damp underwear and flick it away with a foot - until she was utterly bared to him. He stood looking down at her where she lay on the bed, his stare suffused with wonderment. She felt every linger of his gaze like the softest tease of a kiss. She let her hand slide down her body to the mound between her legs, let her fingers creep to the tiny hooded heart of herself, pleasure rippling from it as she did so; so unlike the numb, mechanical motions that had characterised her longing for his memory, back when her body refused to obey her. His eyes were dark with hunger and it thrilled her to see him undress, the sight of his scar only reminding her how unique they were; how brave he was; how her secret plan was going to make him forget all his pain. She signalled with her eyes for him to undo his trousers and when he did, the sight of him, upright and tight with passion, overwhelmed her with need. She wanted him, at his purest and rawest, immediately.

As if knowing just what she was thinking, his hands slid over her knees and parted them, stepping closer so her legs could hook around his back; looking into her eyes as he pushed himself, slow and smooth, inside her. She cried out when he reached his full depth, buried to the hilt, filling her, making her breathless. Every stroke, every careful thrust, only made her want more and she reached for his hips, urging him on, telling him the filthiest things she could think of until he was making hard love to her; his usual meticulous focus reshaping itself into something wilder. He seized her ankles, pushed her legs back and her moans became more like shouts: how divine it was to throw her arms over her head and let the feeling of him engulf her; let the bones of his hips thump against her soft flesh; let the tempest gather. Unusually, intoxicatingly, he matched her in sound at the end; his motion becoming suddenly erratic as she felt the flicker of him expelling deep inside her. Weak, almost confused in his astonishment afterwards, Remus held her and they panted together, entangled on the bed.

“I want that every night for the rest of my life,” she said, feeling the seed he’d spilled inside her gradually trickling out between her thighs. “Every morning too.”

“What about the afternoons?” He asked, smiling dazedly.

“ _Especially_ the afternoons.”

“I remember when we met,” he said, running his fingers from her shoulder, down the dip of her waist, to her hips, summoning goosebumps as he went, “I never could have imagined we would end up like this,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “Dora…I’d do anything to make you happy.”

“So would I. You know that, right?”

But he only smiled and said nothing. As their bodies cooled, he pulled the blanket up over his scar, hardly noticing he was doing it; automatically stifling the brief freedom sex had afforded him. Tonks couldn’t stand it: they were equals and he had to start believing it. She was on the verge of making him happier than he ever thought possible but she was tongue-tied, stumbling over possible sentences.

“Remus…there’s something I want to talk to you about…to, um, to ask you…”

No, Tonks thought, he deserved better than that. She was lousy with words, always had been - action was what she was best at. Without finishing her sentence, she bounced up off the bed, waved her wand to clean herself then pulled her pants back on.

“Get dressed,” she told him, pulling a t-shirt over her head and lengthening it to her mid-thigh.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Just trust me.”

She yanked her black combat boots onto her feet. Remus was still buttoning when she hugged him tight and apparated them into howling wind. They held each other and looked around in awe: they were stood on a craggy peak, high in the mountains above Hogsmeade, the village nothing more than a twinkling cluster far below in the distance. From where they stood, they could see glassy lakes, ink-black except for the stars reflected on their surface. Tonks relished the buffeting of the wind against her skin and morphed her hair so long that it blew around the tops of her legs.

“It’s stunning,” said Remus, looking out at the dark, jagged horizon.

“Funny how I used to see these mountains every day but I never thought to come here until tonight. Now you’re back in my life, I want to go everywhere with you.”

“Not everywhere wants me, my love,” he said. “Though at least the mountains can’t object to my condition.”

“If they did, I’d take them on,” Tonks shouted, suddenly wild as the wind herself, her arms and hair flailing, “mountains, forests, oceans, the whole fucking world if I had to.”

Remus caught her hands and swept her around as if in a dance. They laughed and span, the space around them feeling as vast as if they were on the top of the world, nothing but outer space above them, at one with the bright night air. Fireworks of colour shot up from Remus’ wand. His smile was unrestrained as Tonks stretched her arms up and watched the colour bursts raining down around her, the sparks like comet trails falling weightlessly into her hair. When the waterfall of colour began to ebb, Remus pointed up at the sky.

“The dog star,” he said. “Sirius. The brightest one in the sky, just there. Do you see it?”

“Oh yeah, I see it. Hey, Sirius.”

_Are you watching, cousin?_

Her palms were sweating. Her legs were wobbling. Her heart was pounding fit to implode. She took one step back from Remus who was still staring up at the constellations. She didn’t care much for tradition, but she suspected Remus might rather like it. She got down on one knee.

“Remus.”

He did a double take.

“What are you doing down there?”

“Asking you to marry me.”

His legs folded and he collapsed to the ground in front of her. His eyes were desperate, beseeching, questioning: his mouth hung open, speechless. Tonks whispered and a hundred golden spheres blossomed from her wand and bobbed away, spreading out across the mountain tops; lining every undulation, glimmering far into the distance, like legions of candles. Remus stared in every direction, stricken, the lights glowing in his pupils. Tonks took his hands in hers. Her hair flapped in the wind, wrapping their two figures in pink. They were both trembling now.

“Marry me, Remus. I mean it. I don’t know what the future’s going to hit us with, but I want to face it as your wife, to be as joined to you as two people can ever possibly be. I want to prove to you, to the whole _world_ , there’s no higher love than the one screaming in my heart. You're the only person for me. I’ll never love anyone else. Be my husband.”

Remus didn’t speak, only shuddered: his face scrunching up as tears streamed down his cheeks, crying in a way she’d never seen him do before. But what she saw in his eyes wasn’t despair, but joy - an unbridled, disbelieving, perfect joy - so tears sprang up in her eyes too, barrelling down her cheeks and wetting unruly strands of hair.

“I don’t need a silly white wedding. I don’t want to fuss over cakes or flowers or a big puffy dress, that’s not me. It’s you I want, only you. I don’t even need a ring - ”

“A ring,” Remus repeated, “of course you need a ring.”

He wiped at his cheeks though fresh tears only began to flow all the more profusely.

“I - I have one I can give you. It’s all I have. It’s all I have to offer you. But if you…if you truly want me…it’s yours,” he took a juddering breath, “anything, everything I am - it’s all yours if - only if - you truly want it…”

“What do _you_ want, Remus?”

He didn’t answer immediately. For a slow, heart-rending second, Tonks thought he was going to tell her that what he wanted didn’t matter, or to shroud his answer in deference to her wishes, or to flee from the question entirely - to flee from her - but he didn’t.

“I want to marry you.”

They collided into a kiss, bruising their knees, sinking into the mud, becoming tangled in hair. Tears flowed into tears as they became something new. Bound by their bodies and tiny amongst the ageless stones, they imagined eternity.

— End —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shocked doesn’t quite cover it. I can’t believe I’ve finally finished it!!
> 
> As I said when I finished Flying Colours, it might not be perfect but I’m proud of it :) If you’ve made it this far, I’d absolutely love to hear what you thought - character opinions, favourite bits, literally anything - whether you're reading this now or sometime in the distant future. Comments of all shapes and sizes are welcome with me so don’t be shy! 
> 
> I have to say the deepest, most heartfelt thank you to my squad of amazing commenters. You all know who you are - you’ve been the most supportive and lovely readers I could ever have hoped for and I’m unbelievably grateful to you all. You’ve brightened up my quarantine immeasurably and I’ll never EVER forget it. 
> 
> I’ll soon be turning my attention to Part 3 of the Flying Colours trilogy but, until then, I’m going to crawl under my bed with a glass of wine and some Hozier cranked up to full volume. Goodbye for now, Remus and Tonks - you’ve been fantastic isolation buddies. 
> 
> So much love, 
> 
> T xx


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